Tag: HOM

The photo attached to the post was only a torso shot; it was difficult to determine the dude’s age. But the pic showed a lean, boyish chest with broad smooth pecs. Large dark nipples weren’t the only thing to stand; a large tattoo was inked across the left pectoral—the anarchy symbol, a letter A made of three crossed lines, with a circle around them.

There was a faint haze of brownish fuzz across the guy’s flat belly; there was nothing else distinguishing about the pic—but it was enough for Joe.

He’d been off work, but it had rained all day. Now, long after the sun had set, he sat listening to the pattering of raindrops against the window. He was bored and horny, and that meant one thing.

Some lucky faggot was gonna spend the last few minutes of his life with Joe’s huge cock buried in his ass.

He’d trolled through the app he’d downloaded to an earlier victim’s phone. Nothing stood out, so he’d held off until later in the evening. The really sick homos, the ones who most deserved to be put down like dogs, tended to crawl out from under their rocks under the cover of darkness.

And he’d been right. This fucker right here was just beggin’ to get whacked.

He sent a reply—a dick pic, full erect. “U bitch enough to take me all the way?”

The response was quick and detailed. An address, and the info the door was unlocked. The pansy wanted Joe to come right in, head for the bedroom where the queer would be on the bed on his hands and knees. He wanted Joe to walk in and stick his dick right up his ass. No foreplay, no talk—just plug his hole and start banging him.

Joe could do that. He let the dude know.

“Cool can you make it quick—got more dudes cummin later gonna be a serious cum dumpster—Cliff ”

Joe smirked as he padded off to put some clothes on, his hard, muscled body moving like a panther’s in the dark. No, it wasn’t gonna be quick. No matter how much Cliff begged, it wasn’t gonna be quick at all.

The hardcore sex killer selected his outfit with care. It was warm and humid outside; the rain was the last of the summer showers, but it hadn’t cooled off quite yet. He pulled a black sleeveless t-shirt over his hairy chest; it displayed his well-developed biceps and furry forearms perfectly. Next, he slipped into his favorite pair of jeans well-worn and skin-tight, cinching them around his narrow waist with a wide belt of black leather. Finally, he sat on the edge of his bed and pulled on a pair of engineer boots, also of black leather, with a buckled strap across the ankle and another at the top of the shaft. It was easier just to pull them on over the legs of his jeans…

Dressed to kill, Joe stood up and headed for the door, his dick already tenting the crotch of his jeans in anticipation. He needed to drain his huge, hairy balls badly, and that meant he needed a cumrag—a human cumrag. Time to head out.

Within fifteen minutes, Joe had arrived at the address given to him, a gated apartment complex in a decent part of town. Cliff had already sent him the gate code; Joe drove into the complex, looking for the right apartment.

It took a while. The rain had stopped-or, rather, the air had become so saturated with water that everything was wrapped in a warm, soggy mist like fog. The apartments were three-story units in long rows down alleyways; the ground floor of each unit was a garage and an entryway.

Finally locating the right unit, Joe parked in front of the garage door. He glanced up and down the alley, but no one was out on a wet night like this. Trying the front door, he found it unlocked as promised and entered the unit.

He found himself in a small entryway with a tiled floor. To his immediate right was a door to the garage; straight ahead were the stairs. The slutboy had informed him that the bedroom was on the third floor, so Joe headed up the steps. Halfway up, they turned and doubled back and Joe found himself in a dimly-lit living/dining area; off to his left was a dark space that was obviously the kitchen. The stairs continued up, and so did Joe.

There were three doorways on the third floor; two of them—presumably leading to a bedroom and a bathroom—gaped blackly at the landing at the top of the stairs. The third one, though, was illuminated by a faint flicker of light. Joe entered the room.

Dark shapes of furniture lined the walls. Joe had to maneuver around what appeared to be a club chair—it was difficult to make out, but there appeared to be clothing draped over the back of the chair. A fragment of color caught briefly in the faint light—a silk tie lay on top. As he passed by, the bulked-out alpha snatched the tie and stuffed it in his pocket; no telling how it might come in handy at some point in the evening. The motion had been too quick and subtle to be seen.

But in any case, the only thing that could be seen clearly was the bed. It was king-sized and had a mirrored headboard with a built-in shelf; the flickering light—the only light in the room—came from three LED candles sitting on this shelf. The bed itself had been stripped down to the fitted sheet, but it wasn’t bare. Crouched on his hands and knees on the bed with his ass in the air, the fag was staring into the mirror, trying to get a better look at the dude who was gonna breed him.

Cliff was twenty-eight but with his lean, lithe body and nearly shoulder-length tousled dirty-blond hair, he looked younger. He worked as an account manager at a bank, where he got by with a button-down look and a quiet demeanor; there was no hint of his wild, sluttish sex life at the office. Once he got home, though, the whore came out to play—and played hard.

The youth was a serious power bottom; he loved to get fucked by anyone anytime—as long as he was off work. “You don’t shit where you eat,” was his motto, and he stuck by it, but his sex drive was so intense, he was usually trolling for tops on his phone as he sat at stoplights on the way home.

The room was dim—he liked a sense of anonymity, of danger—and it was difficult to see, but it looked to Cliff like he’d scored big-time tonight. Yeah, he had other dudes lined up later on, but this hulking muscular stud damn sure looked like he knew how to handle a hot bottom boy. Cliff couldn’t see the guy’s face in the mirror, but he didn’t really care. What he could see of the body was hot as fuck; what he really wanted a look at was the dude’s dick.

He got it soon enough.

Standing at the foot of the bed, Joe grinned at how easy the horny faggot was making it. This pansy wanted a thick tubesteak up his ass bad, and Joe was just the man to give it to him. Unzipping his fly, he reached down into his crotch and slowly extracted his massive cock like a handler pulling a python out of a cage. He heard a faint gasp and realized the homo had caught sight of it. The punk had seen it before, when Joe sent his dick pic, but it had been a close-up without a good sense of scale.

Now Cliff could see the full size of Joe’s shaft, the impressive length and frightening girth obvious as the thick rod of manflesh throbbed and swelled. The dark veins wrapped around it practically writhed as they pulsed with blood. Eager as he was, Cliff had never seen a cock that big and wasn’t sure his asshole could take it. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had plenty of dicks up inside him before, but this…this was something different.

Good thing he had a fresh bottle of poppers.

Joe climbed onto the bed and moved forward until he was up on his knees directly behind Cliff. Pulling up his cock, he let it fall back down onto the homo’s bare backside where it landed with a loud, meaty slap. Cliff moaned and quivered like a bitch in heat and Joe’s grin got wider and more shark-like.

“Ya want that, do ya, cunt?” he jeered, grabbing his dong and steadily slapping it against Cliff’s smooth, rounded asscheeks.

Since Cliff’s face was closer to both the mirrored headboard and the sources of light, Joe could make it out much better than Cliff could his. The long-haired queer’s eyes were large and dark, with long lashes. His nose was long and straight, and around his mouth was a sandy-brown stubble, a goatee just a shade darker than his hair. Joe could also make out the small dark bottle clutched in the cunt’s hand. So the faggot liked his poppers? Good. Joe could make use of that.

He decided to give the slut something to look at. It was warm up on the third floor and Joe was sweating a little. He grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it up over his head, bending back slightly. While still unable to make out Joe’s face, Cliff could make out his incredibly well-developed torso very well, drinking in the details of the dominant stud’s thickly-muscled chest—broad pecs with large dark nipples jutting out, seemingly hard enough to cut glass. Thick, dark, abundant fur spread across the alpha’s abdomen and ran down his ripped abs, disappearing below the waistband of his jeans, demarcated by the wide leather belt.

“Oh fuck it,” Cliff muttered. “Fuckin’ hell, lookit that bod. Put it in me, man. It’s gonna hurt, but I want you in me so fuckin’ bad…” He opened the bottle of poppers and inhaled deeply, holding first to one nostril and then the other.

Joe wasn’t waiting for an invitation. And he wasn’t waiting for lube either; he was going in dry. The little fuck needed to feel it. He pressed the thick, swollen head of his cock against Cliff’s pink puckered sphincter and pressed slightly. Cliff moaned loudly.

Then Joe rammed his shaft home, shoving it all the way in until his pubes were rasping on Cliff’s baby-smooth asscheeks. His enormous shaft speared the pansy’s colon, ripping open the clenched ass muscle and tearing at the tender lining of the rectum. Cliff screeched in pain as the huge rod sank deep in his guts, further than anything had ever penetrated before—

—and could also feel an electric shock run through his own dick as Joe’s cock rode over his prostate like an out-of-control semi. He’d been right, it hurt so bad, it hurt so fuckin’ bad…but he was still getting hard.

“Damn, man, no,” he whined, “Pull out, dude—jeez, I toldja to go slow, lemme get used to it! Goddam, I think ya tore somethin’…” Digging his hands into the mattress, Cliff tried to pull himself off Joe’s dick.

“No ya don’t, bitch,” Joe said calmly, and grabbing Cliff’s right bicep, pulled that arm around behind the boy’s back.

“Wha—?” Cliff asked in bewilderment. “What the fuck ya doin’?”

Joe didn’t both to explain. Fishing the tie out of his pocket, he brought the slut’s left arm around in the same way—expending a little more effort this time since Cliff was disposed to resist—and with the ease of an expert soon had the gay youth’s hands bound securely behind his back.

Cliff’s fear started to override the horrible pain of torn flesh in his anus. There was always the possibility of something going wrong in these blind anonymous hookups—but nothing ever had before. Now, though…this guy was hurting him, and he couldn’t get away.

“Get off me!” he yelled. “I don’t wanna do this anymore!”

Without saying a word, Joe hunched over the cunt’s lithe, smooth body and began pumping his cock fast and hard, plunging all the way into Cliff’s ass. As often as he’d offered his fuckhole up to anyone who’d use it, Cliff had never been fucked all the way up into his guts before. There was something horrible about the searing pain—something that made it feel like he was being badly fucked up on the inside. And yet despite all that, his own cock was so hard it actually hurt…

“Stop!” Cliff cried. “Goddammit, no! This is fucking rape—stop!!”

“Shaddup, faggot,” Joe said evenly, “Ya know ya want it. You like it like this, dontcha, ya worthless cocksucker? This what ya been looking for, huh? A real man to come in and pound the shit outta yer ass? So quit squawkin’ and enjoy the ride, motherfucker, or I’m really gonna make ya hurt.”

Laying his head back down on the mattress, Cliff realized he had no choice. He couldn’t free himself; he was pinned to the bed as if the alpha’s enormous shaft had impaled him on the mattress. “Oh god,” he moaned tearfully, “Oh god, oh god, oh god…” His lean, straining body was wracked with pain with every thrust of Joe’s long, thick rod; his long brown hair darkening as sweat was forced from his smooth skin.

Hearing a clinking sound behind him, the humbled and submissive youth glanced in the mirror. It took him a moment to notice the glint of light winking off to the power top’s side. It was a belt buckle, he realized; the rapist had unbuckled his belt. It had no significance for him.

What did have some significance was that he was still lucid despite the increasingly nightmarish nature of the evening. After all, some part of his bottom pig soul reasoned, all that was really happening was he was getting a good rough fuck, right? And that was what he’d been looking for anyway, right?

But for all the times he’d whored his ass out, he’d never endured so much pain—and even worse, somehow, he’d never been made to feel so trapped and helpless. This dude was not only rough, he was incredibly powerful and Cliff was utterly at his mercy.

And it wasn’t long before he learned Joe had no mercy at which to be.

“Yer gettin’ loose on me, asswipe,” the hulking alpha growled. “Tighten up that fuckhole boy, or I’m gonna tighten it for ya.”

“I—I ca-can’t…” Cliff said, his body and his voice jerking with Joe’s deep, powerful thrusts. He looked pleadingly at the top in the mirror. As he spoke, Cliff could see the alpha’s hands moving at his waist. The dude was slowly and menacingly removing his belt, but the boyslut was too full of cock to care why. “Dude, you-you’re reamin’ me ow-out…”

He drew his right fist back and slammed it down onto Cliff’s kidney with the force of a piledriver; the thick, meaty slap of flesh on flesh sounded like someone hitting a side of beef with a baseball bat. The sudden agony of the kidney punch made Cliff squeal, a loud, high-pitched sound almost identical to that of a pig.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Joe grunted, “Felt that one in my cock. That what ya like, fag? You need to be hurt to get off? Fuck yeah, homo, can do. I’ll put yer worthless ass down so hard you’ll cum for joy, ya disgusting little assfuck.”

Moaning and gasping for air, Cliff wallowed in a small dark cloud of pain. He could hear Joe speak; he could even make out the words, but he was too busy trying to deal with the agony in his ass and his guts and his back to bother to comprehend what was being said to him. He could only writhe in abject fear and pain, which worked Joe’s cock even better—and caused Cliff even more pain in his traumatized rectum.

Glancing up at the mirrored headboard, the dazed youth could see the buff older man’s torso shifting in the dim light as the alpha brutally plowed his hole. The fur on Joe’s chest started to darken and mat with sweat; the room was hot and stuffy and the atmosphere was becoming increasingly more charged with male pheromones with each passing moment. In horror, Cliff could see Joe’s thick, strong arm draw back, bicep swelling with latent power, and he knew he was gonna get hit again.

Joe timed the blow with the thrusting of his cock so that he was balls-deep in the kid’s guts when his fist impacted Cliff’s back like a cannonball, fracturing a rib. The slut grunted in pain and the entire length of his smooth, slim body, slick with sweat, went rigid.

Grinding his hips at an incredibly swift speed, Joe powerfucked the bound, helpless homo as he spoke, reaming the kid mercilessly. “Ya wanna know where yer place is, you dumbass sack a’ shit?” he sneered, “It’s ridin’ my cock down into yer grave and then takin’ a nice long dirt nap. You ain’t no good to me or anyone else once you’ve soaked up my manspunk. Like any other cumrag, yer just gonna end up another piece of garbage.” Another blow, this one totally unheralded, struck Cliff’s other kidney, the sudden organ trauma literally taking the slut’s breath away.

With that, he tossed his belt down onto the bed in front of Cliff. The lean young man, already suffering under the brutal blows to his back and the violent assfuck, stared dully and uncomprehendingly at it. Wrapped tightly in an aching haze, he could only tug his hands feebly at the silk binding and endure the pain.

The gay punk had retreated into a mental fugue state once the assault had begun, hearing the words that were spoken to him and suffering the pain of the beating and the rape, but not allowing anything to sink any deeper into his psyche. His body was responding automatically; the heady funk of testosterone and mansweat in the air would have kept his dick just as hard even if Joe’s gigantic hog wasn’t crushing his prostate under its huge, vein-wrapped girth.

The youth had whored out his twink body on hundreds of occasions; while he’d always known that the danger of running into someone like Joe was out there, he also knew that it was the kinda thing that would always happen to someone else—never him. After all, he just wanted to get fucked. What was wrong with that?

But Cliff’s need for dick had increased. Getting fucked led to getting bred multiple times a night by anonymous strangers—which led to Joe. To the extent that Cliff allowed himself to think, he wondered vaguely how this had happened. He could feel the top’s strong, muscled thighs press against his own with every thrust of the dude’s cock and felt a faint sense of shock that this should have been the best fuck ever—such a fuckin’ stud—and had turned out so bad.

Joe sensed the boy going slack beneath him and knew immediately what was happening. He’d offed enough fuckmeat by now to know that the kid was withdrawing; he was minimizing his psychological damage by submitting to the physical rape without processing any mental input.

Joe didn’t like that. He wanted the kid to suffer mentally as well. He wanted to rape Cliff’s mind as well, to fuck and abuse and destroy the useless fag’s entire being. And he knew exactly how to do it. He started by leaning forward, stretching out and laying full-length on top of his writhing victim, feeling the slim youth’s smooth back writhing under his chest.

Cliff, likewise, could feel Joe on top of him, the wiry, sweat-matted chest hair scraping and scouring the tender skin on his back every time the unlucky punk shuddering in pain. He looked up, quite by accident, and for the first time, got a look at Joe’s face in the mirror—and froze, his blood running ice-cold in terror.

The man fucking him was brutally handsome, his face composed of hard, sharp angles and deep shadows. Some of the latter, the ones that ran across the alpha’s chin and cheeks, were blue and scratchy, shadows of scruff. Dark, slightly curly hair, a long straight nose and full lips curled into a sneer of disgust completed the face of what could have been a portrait of masculinity in the abstract.

But it was the look in the eyes—the beautiful, long-lashed, ice-blue eyes—that instilled such fear in Cliff. It shifted and changed, with rage and lust and disgust chasing each other, but the glint of homicidal glee never faded. Without another word being said, Cliff realized this guy wasn’t just gonna kill him—this guy was gonna get off while killing him.

Then Joe clamped one big strong hand over Cliff’s nose and mouth, completely cutting off his air.

“You’re startin’ to bore me, faggot,” the cruel alpha said quietly, the wiry scruff on his cheek scraping the bound cunt’s ear ash he bent his head down to whisper. “Time for me to blow my load and split. Time for you to die, you homo trash. You need to massage my rod good and hard, and I got an idea.”

Joe had spoken softly and calmly, taking his time as Cliff, squirming and kicking beneath him, slowly suffocated with the top’s powerful hand clutching his face. When he judged the fuckmeat desperate enough, Joe brought up the bottle of poppers which he’d picked up off the bed after binding Cliff hands.

With one hand, Joe unscrewed the top of the small dark bottle. With the other, he released the fag’s left nostril only. As Cliff inhaled deeply and desperately, Joe applied the bottle. The slutty young homo found himself involuntarily taking the largest hit of poppers he’d ever done in his short, wasted life. Joe closed his air off again and held on for sixty seconds as the meat, riding on its rush, bucked and jerked frantically beneath him, Cliff’s smooth back sliding along Joe’s muscled chest and ripped abs on a film of slick boysweat.

Joe suddenly released Cliff’s face, letting the kid exhale. This close to his meat, Joe could smell the chemical fumes on the cunt’s outgoing breath. Before the slut could breathe in again, Joe closed off everything but his right nostril and reapplied the bottle. Lack of oxygen meant that Cliff had no choice but to inhale another lung-busting hit of poppers, deeply and lengthily.

The young homo felt himself losing it; his head spun and there was a loud throbbing in his ears. His cock was so fuckin’ hard and his ass was getting plowed and he wanted it to go on all fuckin’ night—

—and that was when Joe released his head again, picked up the belt, and wrapped it around the fuckmeat’s neck.

Leaning back, Joe pulled on the thick strap of black leather, forcing Cliff’s head up off the bed. The boy slowly bent backwards as Joe continued to pull; for every fraction of an inch that the kid’s head moved back, the pain in his twisting spine grew geometrically. The force caused the belt to sink deeply into Cliff’s neck—not completely cutting off his air but impeding the flow down his trachea enough to cause the bitch to wheeze frantically.

Cliff’s hands jerked and pulled at the silk tie binding his wrists; Joe could feel the boy’s fingertips desperately twining in the fur on his ripped abs. Nothing the kid could do would loosen the knot; he was as helpless as if he’d been caught in a steel trap. Cliff looked up involuntarily—and caught sight of his own image in the mirror.

Somehow, that was the worst thing of all. His mind was still fogged with an intense chemical haze from the forced poppers; it only seemed to intensify the horror. He’d been pulled so far backwards that his chest was off the bed. His face was already starting to turn blue and his painful, labored attempts to breathe deeply had forced saliva out of his mouth where it ran down his chin in a foamy drool. It was grotesque and sickening—and he wasn’t actually even being strangled yet.

But it was coming. He knew it was coming.

The most surreal aspect of the whole thing was his cock. He was being raped and murdered, but—as he could see very well—the biggest, most intense erection he’d ever experienced was flopping around between his smooth thighs and slapping against flat, sweat-beaded belly.

“Don’t,” he cried out, “Please stop…”

At least, that’s what Cliff heard in his head. What came out of his mouth was more of a choking, gagging sound, accompanied by more streamers of drool trailing from his chin.

“Shaddup, faggot, and work my dick,” Joe growled. He wrapped the belt around both palms and, grinning sadistically, rode Cliff’s ass like a bucking bronco, using the belt to control the meat like reins. Joe’s thick cock, plugged up the kid’s fuckhole like a baseball bat, could sense whenever the homo’s jerking and kicking slowed; the alpha lost that sensation of moist velvet caressing the swollen, leaking head of his shaft.

To get it back, all he had to do was pull on the reins and cut off a little more of Cliff’s air.

The next fifteen minutes—the last fifteen minutes of Cliff’s life—were a pit of nightmarish horror as the smooth young faggot was slowly and incrementally choked to death.

Every jerk on the belt made it that much harder to breathe, to pull air into his lungs. Cliff no longer paid attention to the searing pain in his ass; he could still feel the alpha’s enormous cock reaming out his rectum, but his entire being was focused on the effort of breathing. And again, another pull on the belt, and this time Cliff both heard and felt something crack in his neck. Against his will, he tried to look in the mirror again. It took a little effort—his head was tilted back now, so he had to point his eyes downward but they responded slowly, and it took a moment for him to see himself.

Joe’s cock was still smashing Cliff’s prostate, keeping the slut in an erect state, which is why Cliff wasn’t able to piss himself when his eyes focused on his image.

For a moment, he refused to recognize himself. That couldn’t be him, that gargoyle in the mirror. Cliff was rapidly aging out of the twink category, but he prided himself on his youthful, boyish appearance. He’d always looked younger than his actual age, and that alone had gotten him lots of dick.

But that thing in mirror was a caricature. His face, yes, but swollen and purple, his full lips now blue and parted by his thick, protruding tongue. His face burned and felt hot, so very hot—and that thing was sweating, its near-black skin smeared with clammy perspiration—but no, not him, not him…

Joe had glanced up and noticed the direction of the dying pansy’s stare. “Oh fuck yeah, watch yerself die, you piece of queer-ass shit,” he chortled cruelly. “You like that, yeah? You sick fuckin’ pervert, this is what you been lookin’ for, ain’t it? You been layin’ here night after night, lettin’ any dude who walks through the door fill you with cum, hopin’ that one of ‘em would put you outta yer fuckin’ misery and waste yer sorry ass, yeah? Well I’m here, boy, and you’re done.”

The muscled killer bent forward, not allowing any slack in the remorseless leather strap. His head nearly nuzzled Cliff’s, his hot breath disturbing the meat’s long hair, now damp and stringy with agonized boysweat. “See the way yer eyes are buggin’ out?” he whispered, the stubble on his cheek scraping Cliff’s left ear. “Watch the whites turn red as blood vessels pop. You can hear it, cantcha? That pounding in yer empty fuckin’ head? It’s yer pulse—you’ll be able to hear your heart start to fail. Damn, fag, yer droolin’ some pink foam now, see? Know what that is? That’s blood. We done jacked up yer windpipe real bad, boy—and yer dick is still hard as a fuckin’ brick!”

The pain was clawing at Cliff like some vicious living entity. The front of his throat had been squeezed so far back by the belt that ran around it that the cartilage of his trachea had cracked. Every drawn-out and desperately-fought-for cubic inch of air that the cumslut drew into his burning lungs was accompanied by a searing pain in his fractured windpipe. And even though the pounding and dark buzzing in Cliff’s head made rational though difficult, the struggling homo had no problem feeling Joe’s massive shaft still plowing his hole, a relentless, unstoppable reaming that he had never known could exist—it was like he was getting fucked to the depths of his sick little faggot soul.

Joe could see that the meat was just barely hanging on. The little fuck’s ass was starting to spasm weakly; it felt good—but not good enough. Time to kick this shit into high gear.

“Looks like it hurts,” Joe chuckled, his lips inches from the side of Cliff’s head. “Looks like it hurts like fuck. Does it? Does it hurt, fag? I hope the fuck it does. The more it hurts, the more you work my tool. And I gotta tell ya, cumdump, you ain’t workin’ it good. You ain’t givin’ me no satisfaction, boy.”

Still trembling on the edge of functionality, Cliff heard and understood every word, but his entire being was engaged in the struggle of just staying conscious. The battered and abused youth knew that if he blacked out, he’d never wake back up.

The alpha’s cold, dry chuckle would have made Cliff’s blood run cold if he could have spared the attention. “Guess that means I gotta hurt ya some more,” Joe whispered seductively. “Ya like that, dontcha? Sure you fuckin’ do, you pig fuck; lookit how yer little faggot dick is droolin’ precum. Guess what, dude—I’m gonna hurt you so bad yer gonna cum like a fuckin’ geyser, cunt. Know how I’m gonna do it? Huh? Know what hurts bad enough to do that, bitch?”

Joe’s head hovered beside Cliff’s, his breath hot on the punk’s ear as he whispered. “Death, motherfucker,” he hissed. “Death is the ultimate pain. You’ll never suffer more agony that what you’re about to experience. And your dying convulsions are gonna suck the sperm right outta my balls. I’m gonna pump yer stupid fag ass full of cum and leave your dead meat to rot. Don’t that sound hot as fuckin’ hell?”

The struggle to live was wearing Cliff down, but he wasn’t ready to die. Some arrogant part of his weak, sputtering personality simply refused to believe that he was gonna die; the part that regarded him as the main character in his own story couldn’t accept that the story was about to have a dark ending.

And some part of his sick pig soul didn’t want to die because it felt so good—the sharp, searing pain in his torn rectum, the shattered sensation in his crushed throat, the blooming bruises on his back…the searing, throbbing agony of his forced, involuntary erection…it all hurt so fuckin’ good. At the very end of his short, wasted life, some part of Cliff embraced the pain, wallowed in it, fetishized it—because on a deeply subconscious level, the reamed-out and used-up fag knew that pain was the last thing he’d feel. Only death would release him from pain, and he didn’t want to die.

Joe knew it all. He knew what the meat went through when he snuffed it, and he didn’t give a shit. He was doing the homo a favor—taking a worthless pansy and giving it a purpose as his personal cumrag. Little fucker should be thanking him. Instead, the stupid cunt wasn’t even able to give his thick oozing shaft the intense stroking it needed.

“I’m done with you, ya worthless asswipe,” Joe snarled, his voice dripping with menace. “You’re even useless as a faggot—ain’t even a good buttfuck, huh? I’ll be doin’ the planet a service by takin’ out a waste of space like you, bitch. You think someone’s gonna care how much you’re sufferin’? Fuck that—no one’s gonna give a shit that you’re dead, motherfucker. No one cares. Time to die like the garbage you are, queermeat.”

Joe’s next move was so swift that Cliff never noticed it—not that the bound, struggling homo was in enough control of his sense to note anything at all. The muscle-bound alpha brought both ends of the belt together, looping the loose end through the buckle—a simple slip knot. Then, with a single brutal jerk of his powerful biceps, he cinched the belt around Cliff’s neck, sinking it in even deeper than it had been before. As the leather strap whipped into place, it moved so fast it flayed the tender flesh around the punk’s throat in a neat circle. The slashing pain was so intense, for a brief, horrific moment Cliff thought his throat had been cut.

It would have been no more horrific than what happened next. Joe had only given the belt a casual yank, but his brute strength had been enough to tighten the belt to the point that it completely crushed Cliff’s trachea. The lean, long-haired bottom pig was still alive, but no matter what happened, he’d be dead within five minutes.

His bulging, bloodshot eyes locked on the mirror, the choking, dying faggot could see the depths of his own suffering in the grotesque and distorted mask his once-handsome visage had become. Black and swollen, his cheeks smeared with snot and foamy drool, Cliff’s face was etched with strangled agony. His legs were useless, pinned under him as his killer’s weight bore him down onto the bed. His arms still struggled against the silk binding, to no avail.

He could feel it all, though—from his crushed and mangled larynx to Joe’s wiry pubes scraping his smooth asscheeks with every balls-deep thrust, to his own erect and oozing cock–even as he died, Cliff continued to suffer. Well past rational thought, he caught motion in the mirror and could see Joe draw his powerful arm back, but this time he wasn’t able to follow the idea to its logical conclusion.

“Die, motherfucker,” Joe snarled and unleashed the ultimate rabbit punch on his victim.

The muscle-bound killer’s fist struck the back of Cliff’s head with the force of a sledgehammer. Simultaneously, Joe jerked back violently on the belt. The combined impact drove Cliff’s head forward while his neck was pulled backwards. There was a loud, wet crunching sound and the top three vertebrae of Cliff’s neck exploded into tiny shards of bone, tearing through his spinal column like shrapnel.

Unluckily for Cliff, the damage to his nervous system was catastrophic but not instantly fatal. His spinal cord was severely damaged but hadn’t been completely severed. The pain was beyond anything in the young homo’s imagination. It was a searing electrical shock that tore through every nerve fiber in his body, completely filling the lean punk with burning agony. As his head lolled forward limply on his broken neck, his muscles contracted involuntarily, his slick, smooth body trembling with rigidity.

“Aw, fuck yeah, now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!” Joe grunted with pleasure as he hunched forward and unloaded a steady stream of cum into Cliff’s guts. The nearly-dead meat felt the splash of manseed deep inside, but his traumatized nerves could only record the boiling heat of Joe’s load, as if the killer had pumped his victim full of molten lead.

At the same time, the shattering of his spine had also triggered the fag’s straining cock. Cliff’s dangling head no longer allowed him to look in the mirror, but he had a perfect view of the long, ropy strands of semen that were being violently expelled from his own purple, engorged shaft.

It hurt. He was cumming so hard it hurt. It felt like his innards were being ripped out and expelled from his body in a squirt of boyspunk. Unable to look up, he never saw his cum splatter and smear on the headboard mirror.

Joe held the corpse close to him for a few moments, his powerful, bulked-out body shuddering as the fag’s death throes continued to milk his swollen, sensitive shaft. Finally, he withdrew his still-oozing rod from the punk’s mutilated asshole and let Cliff drop to the bed. The randy young fag spent his last seconds on earth suffocating face-down in puddle of his own sperm.

Standing up, Joe turned to the chair with the clothing piled on it and extracting a pale blue button-down shirt, used it to wipe the sweat and cum off his hard, hairy torso still-erect cock before tossing it onto the floor. Tucking his long shaft back into his jeans, Joe then grabbed his own shirt from the floor beside the bed and put it back on.

The last thing he did was retrieve his belt. It took a moment to pry it from around Cliff’s loose, shattered neck. It had sunk so deeply into the flesh of the throat that Joe had to sit on the bed for a moment with the head of the trembling corpse in his lap so he could dig the leather strap out. Once he’d clawed it free, he stood up, dumping the pile of dead manmeat onto the floor with a loud thump. Treading on the dead body with a contemptuous sneer, the muscled alpha threaded the belt back around his waist and left the room.

In the silent darkness, broken only by the faint flickering candlelight, Cliff’s body began to cool and stiffen. Long minutes later, there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs and someone walked into the bedroom.

Joe hadn’t been the only dude Cliff had been intending to trick with that night; he’d had multiple appointments. The next guy in line had arrived. It took a few minutes of confusion for him to locate the corpse, but once his did, he backed away in horror and fled the apartment, not stopping to alert anyone—or to wonder why the sight of the murdered slut had left him hard.

Over the next six hours, three more dudes arrived ready to fuck Cliff, only to leave hurriedly—in in terror, one in frustration, and one curiously stimulated and more eager than ever to find someone to fuck. None of them called the police.

The body wasn’t officially found for another two days, after the mail had backed up and one of the neighbors complained about the smell.

For Carlos, it started with a text from Nick: “be @ office in ½ hr—got a job”. In this context, Carlos knew exactly what “job” meant. And the fact that Nick wanted him at the office so quickly meant it had to be something good; at this hour of the day, traffic made that timetable impossible. Nick must be really excited.

Carlos was already casually dressed in tight but faded jeans, a navy-blue thermal shirt with long sleeves; it clung to the hard-bodied convict like it had been painted on. On his feet were a pair of boots—brown leather ropers, so worn, they slouched and were soft as leather. The outside temperature was in the lower 40’s—a chilly evening for Vegas. Carlos was used to colder weather; he didn’t bother to put a jacket on before he left the condo. On the other hand, he kept the top up and the heat on in the Mercedes.

The office that Nick referred to was literally that; he’d rented some space in an office/warehouse park in the southwest part of town off Blue Diamond Road. It consisted of a suite of two rooms, the inner devoted to the technical aspects of the production. Carlos rarely entered it; Nick kept it freezing for the sake of the server and expensive desktop units he used for editing and storage.

The outer room, however, was furnished for people to meet. A sofa and four chairs, all cheap but relatively comfortable, were spread out with a couple of strategically-placed chairs. In one corner was a desk with a monitor; this desktop was considerably cheaper than anything in the inner room but served well enough for things like bookkeeping and communication. This was where Nick was seated when Carlos entered.

The slightly older stud was clearly eager; Carlos wasn’t fully in the room before Nick started talking. “Look at this,” he said, gesturing to an email he had up on the computer screen. “It’s a commission, and a damn good one—look at that amount!” The young killer sat casually on the corner of the desk and leaned his buff body inwards for a better view of the monitor; he blinked in surprise and grinned when he saw the number of zeros after the dollar sign. “Holy fuck—where’d that come from? What do they want?”

“They wanna cop scene with two vics. Busting a couple of fag whores, blackmailing them into sex and then snuffing them. One vic is strangled, the other—well, let’s just say they’ve seen your work and they want you to get creative with a blade.” Carlos chuckled at this news, and Nick noticed the bulge in the younger stud’s jeans swell visibly.

And the psycho killer said he wasn’t gay. Nick knew better, but he was too smart to admit it. He was also too smart to admit that this commission had been the result of his posting the video he’d secretly recorded of Carlos raping and murdering the young blond hustler. Carlos still had no idea his brutal performance had been witnessed—by this time—by many, many others.

“Oh hell yeah, I’m down for wastin’ more homos,” the buff, tattooed sadist smirked. “I take it you already got a plan. Any good meat lined up?”

Nick’s face broke into a broad grin. “Fuck yeah, man, you know it. I already have this one framed in my head to get the right shot. I was savin’ these two for a special occasion, and if this doesn’t fit the bill, then nothing ever will. Check these fuckin’ cunts out.” And with that, he pulled up a video file, moving his chair aside to give Carlos a better view as he did so.

“This was sent to me by someone who wanted to see them snuffed,” Nick added by way of explanation, “But they couldn’t fund the project and I wasn’t gonna waste my time on it. Now that we got a job, I’ll see how much these two fags want and offer them more.”

The video popped up to full screen; Carlos could feel his hog swelling even more within twenty seconds. It showed two dudes, one obviously older than the other, fucking in the missionary position. The older man was firm, fit, and looked like he was in his late thirties. He had light brown hair that was starting to recede slightly in the pattern caused by an excess of testosterone; he compensated with a short goatee that was almost a dark gold in color. His broad chest was covered with tightly curled fur and was almost—but not quite—as muscled as either Nick or Carlos.

The younger slut’s hair was lighter, almost blond, but was darkening in places. His form was slim and smooth, and he looked like he was in his late teens. He was the bottom in the sex scene; despite the way his handsome young face was twisted in the pain and pleasure of rough anal sex, there was still a noticeable resemblance between him and the older dude fucking him.

“This was shot a couple of years ago,” Nick said by way of explanation. “The older dude is Ed and the younger is Johnny. When this was shot, they were thirty-six and sixteen. Video came with contact info, see—I’ve already talked to them. They’re local—and they’re father and son. Seriously.”

As a chilly grin spread across Nick’s face, he could feel his own cock start to stiffen. “No shit, man; that’s the idea. You up for puttin’ ‘em down? I’ll take daddy and you can take son. We’ll set it up like the cop porno and fuckin’ waste the faggots with extreme prejudice. First, though—we gotta meet them.”

“What? Why?”

“I want them to feel comfortable. Nothing to alarm them. And we can set up the cop scenario—that’s what we’re being paid for, after all. Let ‘em know where the shoot’s gonna be, that sorta thing.”

Carlos’s face showed the reluctance with which he acquiesced; it was obvious he wanted to get hold of the incestuous pair and wreak havoc on their unsuspecting male bodies right away. “Yeah?” he demanded, “So where is it gonna be? Gonna whack ‘em in the condo?”

“Naw,” Nick chuckled, “I gotta better idea than that. Leave it to me, dude, just leave it to me…”

Four days later, on a much balmier Saturday, the long violet dusk of the desert was fading into blackness as Carlos stepped out of the bathroom in cheap but clean motel room. Looking around the room, he could see Nick, already in costume.

Carlos himself was dressed as agreed; he was role-playing a motorcycle cop. But since this was supposed to be “straight” gay porn, so to speak, he was dressed as the gay ideal of a motorcycle cop, which meant lots of black leather—tight leather pants tucked into a pair of nearly knee-high glossy motorcycle boots. Even the utility belt and shoulder harness were leather straps, the latter worn over his broad, bare chest. Shirtless, the winged skull tat on the ex-con’s left pec would be visible on camera, as would the fully inked sleeve on his right arm.

Picking up a classic black and white bike helmet from the dresser, Carlos turned to Nick. Around his throat, the massy links of his thick gold necklace glinted in the bleak light of the bare overhead bulb. “So?” he asked, “How do I look?”

Nick grinned appreciatively. “Those homos will be beggin’ for yer shaft when they see ya in that getup,” he chuckled, “But speakin’ of shafts, I can see the one in yer boot”. Glancing down, Carlos could see the hilt of his shank protruding from his boot. It was a Ka-Bar Becker, a Bowie combat knife with a nine-inch blade of jet black carbon steel, customized with jagged serrations. It was unlikely that the cocksuckers in the next room would notice it against his black leather gear, but there was no sense in taking a chance—he slid the viciously-edged weapon deeper into his boot.

Nick’s costume, while erotic, was slightly more conservative; a standard police uniform, complete with badge. On the other hand, it was two sizes too small, clinging to him like a second skin, the white stripe running down the outside of the legs of the slacks highlighted his bulging thighs and muscular calves as it disappeared into Nick’s tightly laced combat boots.

“And them?” Carlos asked, nodding at a door in the side wall. “Are they ready?”

The door led to a connecting room in the cheap one-story motel Nick had found east of downtown, off the Boulder Highway—an old, run-down motor court with a defunct neon sign displaying the name Snake Eyes. During the initial meeting, he’d given Ed some cash to rent a room there on his own—then Nick had gotten the connecting room himself under an assumed name.

There had been some rocky moments in the initial interview; Ed and Johnny had been somewhat hesitant about the scenario. The rough sex wasn’t an issue, once they were told they’d be paid extra, but the cuffs were more of a concern—turned out they’d never done bondage before. It took the offer of even more cash to get them (well, Ed, actually, like a good boy, Johnny let daddy do the talking) to agree.

And even then, the older pervert demanded a down payment. Nick simmered with repressed rage as he handed five Franklins over to the well-built but slightly smaller man. That cash was gone for good, he reflected angrily; the fucker wasn’t likely to bring it back to the shoot.

Once the money was settled, though, things went more smoothly for a while. The meeting at the motel was arranged and the plot agreed to—Carlos and Nick were to bust in and find Ed and Johnny fucking; after separating and cuffing them, Carlos would fuck Johnny while Nick fucked Ed. Surprisingly enough, Ed—who’d only appeared in the video as a top—had no problem with the thought of taking Nick’s cock up his ass, but Johnny seemed intimidated by Carlos’s massive dong; both tops had been wearing revealingly tight jeans that day specifically to show off.

After a hurried, whispered conference between father and son, Ed spoke up in an embarrassed tone. Johnny thought Carlos was hot as fuck but, had admitted, the kid had never taken a dick that size and was gonna need something to help with the pain. It took another ten minutes of hemming and hawing for him to confess that Johnny wanted meth on the set.

Nick and Carlos glanced at each other. They didn’t particularly care what the fuckmeat did to itself, but they didn’t want to be inhaling those toxic fumes themselves. It was agreed that Johnny could smoke in the bathroom with the fan on prior to the killers entering the room.

And that was what was presumably happening on the other side of the connecting door right now. Nick had a video feed from one of the cameras he’d set up previously over there streaming to his phone; the screen showed Ed utterly nude but for the thin gold chain around his neck, from which a plain cross of the same shiny metal gleamed in a nest of his chest fur. The wiry muscles of his hairy body rippled as he paced the room, his long tool swaying as he turned.

The sick faggot was clearly impatient for his son to come out of the bathroom so he could fuck the slim teenager.

He didn’t have long to wait; the door opened suddenly and the blond kid walked out. Unlike his dad, he wasn’t nude; he sported a pair of plain white cotton briefs that barely contained his short but incredibly thick cock and cradled his smooth bubble-butt asscheeks. He’d left his sneakers on too, a pair of Puma Redon Moves in black.

There were two double beds in the room, each under the gaze of several different types of camera. Nick hadn’t left any angles uncovered by either video or a still camera set for multiple timed shots. As the father/son pair approached the bed on the left, Johnny’s face swam into view; even on the small screen of Nick’s phone, the kid’s twitching bloodshot eyes showed how hard the little fuck was tweaking.

Not that it mattered. The adolescent homo embraced the older man; as they kissed, each obviously thrusting his tongue deep into the other’s mouth, the family resemblance became very clear. The same deep brown eyes with long lashes, the same snub nose, dimpled chin and full, red lips—no one watching the scene could miss the fact that they were watching father and son indulging in incestuous gay sex.

Ed reached down and with a swift yank, jerked Johnny’s tighty whities down past his knees; they fell to the floor and Johnny stepped out of them, his fireplug-like dick popping up and smacking his abs, splattering his smooth flat belly with precum. Panting with lust, Johnny hopped onto the bed and, rolling onto his back, spread his kicks in the air as he waited for daddy to come mount and penetrate his ass. Ed was already there, his erect shaft probing at his teenaged son’s sphincter. The moment daddy rammed it in, Johnny grimaced and he let out a loud moan that was equal parts pleasure and pain.

Smirking, Carlos looked over at Nick, who nodded back. It was time. “Let’s get this show on the road,” Carlos, chuckled, then put his boot to the connecting door. Kicking it open, he drew the gun from his shoulder harness holster and burst into the other room. “Police!” he bellowed ferociously for the camera, “Everyone freeze!”

Nick followed, also with a drawn handgun—the guns were real but not loaded. After all, shooting the pansies wouldn’t have been any fun.

“Well, whadda we got here?” Carlos jeered.

“Looks like that report about faggot whores in this room was right,” Nick replied. “C’mon, ya sick perverts, up against the wall.”

Ed and Johnny disentangled themselves, got out of bed and slowly back away from the “cops”, hands in the air. “Isn’t there something we can do about this?” Ed asked, sticking to the script, “Some way we can work this out?”

“Yeah?” Carlos leered, “Like what?”

Ed looked over at Johnny. “Go on, boy,” he said, “Show him what.” With his father’s sanction, the firm, slim youth reached out and grabbed Carlos’s crotch, rubbing his hand over the enormous bulge in the black leather, fondling the long shaft. The boy’s eyes widened as his fingers slid over the detail of every vein wrapped around the monster hog; daddy wasn’t this big. Johnny was glad he’d gotten high first; he was gonna need it.

Ed, for his part, had reached out and started unbuttoning Nick’s tight shirt. “Hey, I think these cocksuckers are tryin’ to bribe us.” Nick laughed, slipping his gun back into the holster dangling from his thick belt.

“I think we need to take these faggots into custody, man, make sure they don’t try to get up to nothin’,” Nick drawled, shrugging off his black shirt. “Turn around and put yer hands behind yer back, ya queer-ass bitch!” he barked as he spun the older man around. Ed, fit but less powerful, was a top with his son, but the rough manhandling he was getting from the muscled stud was keeping his dick hard.

As Nick locked the steel cuffs around Ed’s wrists and, pressing the helpless bound man to the wall, began fondling him, Carlos turned to Johnny. A cold grin slowly crept over his sexy, cruel face as he reached up and slid the inch-wide leather holster harness strap off his right shoulder. “You too, boy,” he hissed at the slim, firm teen who was backing away, intimidation clearly showing in his face. “Turn around, bitch. You don’t wanna make me come after you.”

The threat implicit in the ex-con’s husky voice carried to his intended victim, if not to the kid’s father. But the fruit didn’t fall far from the tree; the harsh authoritative tone of command managed to fill the boy with both fear and lust. He obeyed implicitly, almost unconsciously, whimpering slightly as Carlos removed the harness completely. Placing the revolver on the dresser, he proceeded to use the leather straps to bind the teenager’s arms like a roast trussed for the oven.

“There ya go, boy,” the muscular, inked stud growled, “Now get over on the bed. We’re gonna show y’all how the law ‘round these parts handles faggots.” He pushed Johnny towards the bed on the left; the unexpected shove knocked the youth off-balance, causing him to stumble into the wall, knocking his head on the cheap pine paneling.

“Hey!” Ed yelled, “You leave him alone!” It was improvisation for the sake of the porn film—but there was a note of concern in the tone the both of the sadistic killers picked up on. “You too, cunt,” Nick spat out, “Sit down on that bed, motherfucker!”

As Carlos ran his hands over the teen’s smooth, silky skin, making the adolescent moan in anticipation, Nick stood spread-legged at the foot of the other bed, facing Ed. “Unbuckle my belt,” he commanded the well-built older man.

Ed winced and shuddered under the blow, but his erect shaft pulsed and squeezed out a dribble of precum. Nick chuckled. Oh yeah, this pansy liked it rough and hard.

Good—he was gonna get rough and hard in abundance.

In the meantime, though, he had to work his mouth assiduously on the thick leather strap of Nick’s belt. It took a while for him to get it undone.

Carlos, on the other hand, wasn’t into foreplay. He’d fondled the twink enough; now he was ready to fuck. Standing up, he undid the fly on the tight leather pants—not a zipper, but several buttons he needed to release. As his hand worked its way down his groin, his enormous rod suddenly fell out like a toppled tree—a big, thick log crashing down.

Johnny’s big brown soulful eyes grew wide; both fear and lust were reflected in them as the young fag was confronted with the longest, thickest cock he’d ever seen. The kid’s own shaft, already semi-hard and pulsing, sprang to full attention. Carlos leered down at the adolescent and chuckled. “Yeah, ya like that, dontcha, ya little cock pig? Put it in yer mouth, bitch.”

As his son started to suck Carlos’s cock, Ed, still seated on the other bed, had managed to get Nick’s belt undone. Now the latter had a new task for the older man’s mouth. Lifting his leg, he placed his thick-soled combat boot on Ed’s thigh. “Untie it, motherfucker,” he demanded, flexing a strong bicep in front of the manwhore’s face as a show of power. “Work it with yer mouth, slut, and hurry the fuck up, cause yer gonna do the other one too.”

Ed was more experienced with this kinda thing; there was no hesitation on his part as he bent his head forward and seized the woven nylon laces with his teeth. When he jerked his head to the side to free the knot, the side of his face brushed against the boot; like his son, his tool responded to the sexual stimulus by swelling and drooling precum.

“Fuckin’ bootpig pervert,” Nick sneered and Ed dripped even more.

It only took a couple of minutes for the older man to untie both boots and little more for Nick to unlace them to the point of being able to slip out of them. The entire time, the action was accompanied by the slurping sound of Johnny deep-throating Carlos’s shaft.

“Get on your back, faggot, and spread your legs,” Nick demanded, “Time for you to learn how much trouble yer in—see, cops on this beat know how to make you homos hurt. By the time we’re done reamin’ yer fuckholes, you won’t want any other men.”

Ed struggled to comply, scooting himself backwards up the bed as best he could with his hands cuffed behind him. Lying on his back was gonna hurt with the handcuff on, but he was gettin’ paid extra, so he’d deal with it.

On the other bed, Johnny was having a little trouble maneuvering himself, so Carlos grabbed his arm, lifted him up, and tossed him down on the bed. The kid’s cry of pain coincided with Nick’s sudden penetration of Ed’s sphincter; the older man’s face was twisted into a grimace of discomfort. He was gritting his teeth and trying for too hard not to cry out in pain himself to pay attention to his son’s distress. Besides, the boy liked getting hurt.

“You squeal like a worthless fuckin’ pig, boy,” Carlos growled menacingly, “I like that. Let’s see if I can make ya do it more.” Positioning himself between Johnny’s legs on the bed, Carlos propped the punk’s Pumas up on his own shoulders and slapped the swollen purple head of his dick against the teen’s quivering pink fuckhole, splattering the smooth asscheeks with clear precum.

Then, without warning, he rammed his rod home, spearing Johnny’s ass; his rigid tool tore through the boy’s colon, gouging the tender rectal lining and striking the prostate as it rocketed deep into the teen’s guts.

The look on Johnny’s face showed Carlos he’d gone too far—he’d wanted to make the kid yell, not scream, but his innate sadism had taken over. Quickly, he leaned forward and, clamping his large, strong hand over the punk’s mouth, squeezed it shut. Johnny’s shriek of agony was muffled to a high-pitched squeal as tears flowed copiously from his eyes.

In any other situation, the noise would have been both noticeable and startling; as it was, Johnny’ father was too busy getting fucked himself to care.

The small room, already crowded by two double beds, a cheap dresser and a single nightstand, was swiftly filling with the sounds and scents of man-on-man sex. Sweat and testosterone filled the air with an erotic masculine musk as two pairs of tightly entwined male bodies writhed on the beds, locked together and rutting in an excruciatingly sexual embrace.

Ed moaned and groaned with pleasure as Nick’s swollen shaft plunged deep into his intestines; Johnny, on the other hand, needed to be held down and muffled until his teenaged fuckhole had relaxed enough to accept Carlos’s cock. It took more than five minutes of powerful reaming for the kid to calm down enough for the ex-con to remove his hand; the mesmeric gleaming and jingling of the thick links in the stud’s gold necklace seemed to help, somehow having a calming effect.

“Just shut up and take my dick,” the powerful, tattooed alpha hissed at the youth, bound and pinned helplessly under his heavy muscles. Johnny’s true fag nature came to the fore; doing what he was told, he relaxed his ass muscle and accepted the thick tube of meat. Closing his eyes, the teen sank back into a sensation of both pleasure and pain, sighing as he heard his father’s staccato grunting—the older man was getting pounded good.

Ed had been right, the cuffs were painful as hell, given that his arms were compressed behind his back by not only his own body weight but that of the well-built fucker on top of him. But the violently intense shafting the handsome furry daddy was getting felt so erotic that he ignored both the way the metal cuffs were digging into the small of his back and the way his gold cross pendant had slid up his hairy chest to lodge uncomfortably under his chin. He simply spread his legs wider.

Ed didn’t get a chance to indulge his bottom pig side often, since Johnny was naturally an intense power bottom. He’d forgotten how good it felt to have a real man ramming a thick cock up his ass; it’d been far too long…

Lost in sexual indulgence, Ed paid no attention to what was happening to his son. The kid was doing what he loved the most, getting fucked, and that was all Ed knew.

So Ed never noticed when Carlos reached down and slowly withdrew the wickedly sharp blade from his boot.

Nick noticed; he was expecting it. He and Carlos glanced at each other; a quick nod was all that was needed to confirm that the action was about to swing into high gear. First, though, Nick grabbed Ed’s chin and jerked it away from the other bed. Simultaneously, the brutal convict leaned forward and slapped his hand over Johnny’s mouth, sealing the kid’s lips so he couldn’t scream. Then he flashed Johnny the knife.

The teen’s eyes grew wide with horror as he stared at nine inches of viciously-serrated steel. “Shh,” Carlos whispered, “Quiet, motherfucker or I’ll stick this in ya.”

Johnny was only eighteen; he’d never come up against anything like this in his short, wasted life. Lying helpless and bound on his back, with this sicko’s huge cock up his ass, the youth knew he was utterly trapped. His eyes scanned up Carlos’s ripped abs, past his massive inked chest, wiry fur matted with fucksweat, up to where the thick gold links glittered in the dim light. The blade, evil and hard, was matte black; it didn’t reflect light–a dark, cold presentiment of death.

Something was seriously wrong here, the teen realized—and there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do to escape whatever nightmare was coming.

He was right.

Grinning maliciously, Carlos hunched down over the bound punk, so close that every frantic breath Johnny took was impregnated with mansweat and testosterone; terrified as he was, he responded instinctively to the pheromones. As the cruel alpha slid the sharp, icy tip of the Ka-Bar blade down, the smooth, silky skin of Johnny’s chest, the boy’s thick, fireplug dick began to throb and pulse on its own, standing up and slapping Carlos’s hard belly and splattering it with precum.

On the other bed, Nick was driving his steel-hard shaft into Ed’s ass, keeping the older man’s face turned away from the intimidation process his son was undergoing; daddy would see what was happening to his boy soon enough, but for right now, Nick wanted to make sure Carlos had a little sadistic fun.

After all, he’d have his own turn later. They’d worked out a symbiotic plan of snuff, cruelly effective, in which each would enjoy his own kill. Carlos got to go first; Nick got to watch.

And when it got bad, Ed got to watch, too.

Though cold terror had seized his soul at the sight of the vicious blade, Johnny couldn’t quite believe that anything bad was going to happen; this was the best fuck he’d even gotten. Even Dad wasn’t this well hung, this muscled, this well-wrapped in tight black leather–the smooth slickness of which Johnny could feel as his thighs brushed against Carlos’s powerful, pumping legs. Despite the older man’s hand gripping his mouth painfully, the boy could still smell the dark, masculine scent of the leather.

Carlos was enjoying himself, digging his shiny motorcycle boots into the sheets to help with traction as he thrust his massive rod into the kid. The teen’s large dark eyes glittered with both lust and fear—the prey was right where Carlos wanted it. “Hey, boy, ya sure seem to like gettin’ stuck with a long, hard shaft, huh? Yeah? So lessee how ya like gettin’ stuck with another one!”

Rising up over the bound, helpless teenager, the well-developed convict placed all his weight on the hand over the boy’s mouth. By this point, his other hand had reached the level of Johnny’s smooth, flat belly, now heaving in panic. Slowly and steadily, Carlos applied pressure, driving the razor-sharp blade into the skin several inches above the navel.

The knife was designed for killing; it slid into Johnny’s guts easily, like a hot knife into butter. Despite Carlos’s weight grinding his mouth shut, the youth’s high-pitched squeal was loud enough to catch his father’s attention. Nick let him look—it wasn’t as if he was gonna be able to help. Like Carlos, though, he understood the need to keep his victim quiet until fucker was fully controlled.

Clamping down on the older man’s mouth, Nick whispered in his ear. “Wanna watch yer boy die, motherfucker? I sure the fuck do, so shaddap and enjoy the show.” Ed was strong and fit, but not as strong or as fit as the younger man who was now pinning him to the bed; he kicked and jerked frantically, trying to reach his son, but it was going to take him a little time to learn how futile his struggles were.

For the moment, Ed was forced to lie there and take Nick’s cock up his ass while watching his boy suffer.

And Johnny was suffering badly. The serrated blade sliced down through his intestines but didn’t cut any major blood vessels on the way; Carlos was inflicting a maximum of pain with a minimum of fatal injury. That way he got to play with his meat longer.

“Fuck yeah, dude, that sure tightens yer ass up,” the sadistic ex-con jeered. “You must really be likin’ my blade. That’s whatcha been wantin’, huh, faggot? You been lettin’ daddy fuck ya for years, but he ain’t never hurt you good enough, huh? Go on and tell him, cunt, tell yer fuckin’ father how much you love me guttin’ ya like fresh kill!”

As he took his hand from Johnny’s mouth, Carlos twisted the nine-inch blade, now fully inserted into the teen’s belly, in the wound, then yanked it back out in a single, brutal jerk. The youth stared at the dripping knife, the small strings of flesh dangling from the serrations reflected in Johnny’s wide, glazed eyes. His mouth was wide too, but his pain was so extreme, all that came out was a single agonized croak. Shuddering violently, the poor kid turned to his father, appealing mutely for help—and seeing that there was none to be had.

Carlos, in the meantime, ran the tip of the blade down the teen’s left flank, then rammed the blade upwards under the rib cage. This time, the length of sharpened steel slashed through the punk’s spleen and liver. “Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!” Johnny cried involuntarily as his body went rigid with shock.

“Aw hell yeah,” Carlos moaned, grinning over at Nick—and Ed. “That’s what I’m talking ‘bout, dude! Goddam boy pussy gets all good and tight—fuckin’ piece of fag meat! Shit, man, hope yours jacks ya off as good as this one when ya waste it, man!”

Nick chuckled, easily maintaining control as Ed’s struggles and muffled cries both became more frenetic. “It will, bro, I got it covered. Gonna take a while to put this one down, so go ahead and work that little bitch over. Daddy here needs some tenderizin’—he gets to watch.”

“Hear that?” Nick sneered into Ed’s incredulous, bewildered face, “You disgusting perverts are both gonna die tonight. Fuckin’ incest faggots—gettin’ both you and yer boy here killed, huh? Look on the bright side, cunt; yer both gonna die fulla manspunk—now don’t that make ya feel better?” The older man shook his head violently, as if trying to shake the words out of his ears; as his head whipped from side to side, his gold cross lodging in the crook of his neck as his furry pecs slid across Nick’s in the same direction. As their chest hair entwined, it was compressed and matted by a thin layer of sweat. Even in his fear for himself and his son, Ed was suddenly aware of how painfully erect his nipples were with each scrape of his chest.

And his dick was still erect too—what the fuck? Johnny was being murdered right in front of him, how the fuck could his dick be hard? Jesus, this guy’s cock, too, it hurt so fucking bad, it filled his ass so—

—and then a shrill scream from Johnny redirected Ed’s attention.

Carlos was in a rush of bloodlust. He knew the symptoms by now; the intense eroticism of every moan, every whimper he elicited from the meat; the utter clarity that allowed him to control the desperate youth who fought like the wounded and dying animal he was. He could feel the excitement start to build deep in his balls, but he’d need to exercise control over both himself and his meat to cum the way he wanted. And after all, this one was gonna be a money shot in the literal sense of the word.

The boy was sobbing softly, almost lost in shock, with the long Ka-Bar knife buried to its hilt in his left side. The belly wound was bleeding internally, but he wouldn’t bleed out from that for another half hour or so. This one in his side, though had cut that time to less than twenty minutes; Carlos was going to have to get the motherfucker to milk his cock before the little shit’s lights went out for good.

Good thing the kid responded to pain; he was about to endure a lot of it.

“Ok, you cumsuckin’ sicko,” Carlos growled, “Foreplay’s over. You ready to earn my load? Fuck no, you ain’t; no way no incestuous fairy like you ever gonna earn my cum—but I’m gonna make you work it outta me anyway.”

“Hey, asshole,” Carlos called across to Ed, “Yeah, you, motherfucker—did ya smack yer boy while fuckin’ ‘im? Y’know, give the little cunt a good whack across the face like he deserves? No? Too bad, asswipe; your pervert son likes pain. Fuck yeah, dude, that get ya off the way it gets me off? C’mon, lessee how much pain he likes—lessee how much I have to stick him to make me cum!”

Still without breaking eye contact with Ed—or the timing of a single thrust of his cock—Carlos jerked the knife from Johnny’s side, whirled it expertly in the air, and slammed it back down into the kid’s chest. The blade speared through the left pectoral, slipping between the ribs to puncture the left lung and come out Johnny’s back. By the time the hilt was resting on the teen’s chest, the tip of the blade had sunk three inches into the mattress.

It was a shame the involuntary reaction was so violent; the convulsive thrashing caused the embedded blade to shred the existing chest wound. “Fuckin’-A!” Carlos yelled as Johnny’s legs clamped tightly around his waist; the killer’s leather-clad legs pumped furiously as the stabbed teen flailed helplessly against him, his own chest hair matted into dark, wiry swirls.

Johnny had been held too tightly in an iron grip of pain and fear to think rationally, but this impaling thrust was driven home with an icy shaft of agony that somehow brought clarity to the tortured youth. The teen lifted his head, his pain-twisted face streaked with tears, his short hair now dark and slick with sweat. There was no trace left of his meth high; he strained his eyes to focus on the jingling links of Carlos’s chain dangling just in front of his face.

The horrible rigid metal shaft embedded in his chest was starting to overwhelm the kid; despite a minimum of outward bleeding, his chest cavity was starting to fill with blood. The pain in his lung, his guts, his ass—it was all starting to go cold and gray. His ears were ringing—what was happening here? He couldn’t quite remember…daddy had been fucking him and then there were cops…what had he done? Why was a cop raping him and killing him?

Daddy would know. Johnny turned his head and saw his father being held down and viciously fucked. Daddy was looking at him—and crying. Why was he crying? Johnny tried to reach out to him to no avail, then tried to speak. “Da—urk!” the teenager grunted as a bubble of blood burst from his lips and trickled down his chin.

“Daddy can’t help ya now, cunt,” the buff, inked sadist sneered. “And you still ain’t worked the spunk outta my tool yet—fuck, you’re even useless as a faggot, ain’tcha? Ok, looks like I gotta make yer ass work.”

“Hey look,” he called over to Nick, “I looked this one up online. If I do this right, I can make this boymeat convulse so hard his ass sucks my load right outta my balls—course, it’s gonna cause nightmarish pain. But after all,” he said, turning his handsome and gleefully malevolent face back to Johnny, “That’s what yer here for, ain’t it, meat? To suffer and die on my dick just so I can cum, right? So get to work, ya fuckin’ homo, start drainin’ my sack!”

With that, he pulled the knife out of Johnny’s chest with a flourish, sending a spatter of blood across the ceiling before he swiftly reversed the blade. Leaning forward, he placed one hand on the boy’s forehead, shoving the head back and the jaw up. “Time to die, fag,” he hissed as he placed the tip of the blade against the soft flesh on the underside of the jaw, about two inches back from the chin—and slowly inserted it.

The next thirty seconds were not only Johnny’s last, they were also the most nightmarish he’d experience. Carlos was lying flat on top of the suffering teen, the kid’s slick, smooth body writhing beneath that of the powerful convict; during the entire cruel ordeal, Johnny was aware of his helplessness under the crushing weight of his powerful killer.

And Johnny was aware—as gruesomely slow as the upward progress of the blade seemed to the one who was enduring it, it was still faster than death, or even unconsciousness by blood loss. Johnny experienced every single second of pain as nine inches of sharpened steel began to penetrate his skull.

As the knife inched its way up, it severed the boy’s tongue near the base before slicing up through the soft palate into the sinuses. “Fuuuuck…” Carlos moaned, glancing over at Ed and Nick, intertwined in an intense male embrace of lust and power. “The meat’s finally gettin’ it, bro, he’s sufferin’ so fuckin’ bad…”

Turning back, the cruel stud spat into the punk’s gray, agonized face; the teen’s wide, pain-crazed eyes were ringed with dark circles of shock. With a loud grunt, Carlos reapplied pressure to the knife. Immediately he encountered resistance; wrapping one tatted bicep around the top of the kid’s head, he shoved harder and was rewarded when the blade jerked upward with a loud crunching sound.

The expression in Johnny’s eyes as his septum shattered and the carbon steel blade ripped through his sinuses would be difficult to describe in words, but the grasping, shuddering convulsions that wracked the teen’s body culminated in his rectum, frantically (if involuntarily) milking Carlos’s swollen cock.

With a loud cry, Carlos went rigid and shot a stream of hot spunk deep into Johnny’s guts; at the same time, he clenched his biceps and shoved the knife violently. There was a crunching sound as the serrated steel blade tore free from the boy’s sinuses and thrust up through the brain, the tip embedding itself on the inside of the cranium.

At that point, Johnny ceased to be Johnny. The teenager’s eyes rolled back in his head; he no longer felt pain or terror or his last nightmarish seconds on earth. He also didn’t feel his death load, spontaneously generated by massive brain trauma. Carlos felt it, though; the adolescent’s sweating, heaving body suddenly went rigid—and then there was no teen boy left in Carlos’s arms, just a violently convulsing piece of meat that was orgasming explosively because it didn’t know it was dead yet. A geyser of hot sperm splashed up along the alpha’s abs, matting in his dark, wiry belly fur. A second, stronger—and longer—jet of spunk splattered on the scruff-covered underside of the killer’s jaw; thick streams of cum trailed off to smear across the winged skull inexpertly inked over Carlos’s left pec.

The muscular ex-con kept fucking the meat, grunting and snarling as the cumdump’s death throes worked wad after wad out of the killer’s stiff, unyielding shaft. When he’d finally emptied his huge, puckered sack, Carlos pulled out and knelt on the bed above the still-shuddering corpse. He reached up and yanked the knife out of the meat’s head—it took both hands and a little effort to pry it loose—and glanced over at the other bed. Nick, riding his prey like a bronco, grinned and gave him a thumbs up.

“Goddam, dude, that was one fuck of a money shot,” he said, chuckling, then spat into Ed’s face; the latter was weeping with his eyes shut. “Got me so fuckin’ amped up, I think it’s just about time to put this queer bitch down too. Here, toss me the phone; I’ll yank the cord out.”

“Naw, man,” Carlos replied, “Too much work. Here, use these.” With that, he spun Johnny’s trembling meat over and quickly untied the intricate knot he’d used on his holster harness; the corpse continued to thrash on the edge of the bed, but didn’t fall. “Here, use this,” he said, handing over the harness.

Nick grabbed one of the black leather straps and help it up. “It’ll work; thanks, bro.”

Carlos wanted to get a close-up of the action; there was camera mounted on a tripod on the far side of his bed—there hadn’t been enough room to pose one similarly by Nick’s bed—and he reached back to get it. The camera slipped from his hands; Carlos had to lunge for it, knocking the tripod over behind the bed. From this awkward position, he turned to move closer; in order to steady himself, he planted one boot directly on the back of the dead kid’s head.

And that was the moment Ed chose to turn his head and open his eyes. That was the image that was seared into Ed’s brain after watching Johnny’s horrific death—his boy’s killer posed on one knee over the quivering corpse, still-dripping hog hanging out of the tight leather pants, one boot grinding his poor dead son’s head into the mattress…he’d never get to fuck that sweet young ass again…

Despair rose up within the older man, despair that soon turned to terror once he remembered he was still helpless in the control of two younger, stronger sex killers. He opened his mouth—even he didn’t know if he was gonna beg or plead or just scream—but to no avail; as he did so, Nick wrapped one of the holster straps around his neck and pulled.

“Ready to join yer boy in a dirt nap?” the dominant sadist chuckled, twisting the inch-wide leather strap around his hands for better leverage, “Cause it’s time to die, dude; yer gonna die on my dick like a fuckin’ dog…”

The older faggot had been so wrought up by the sadistically cruel assault on his son that his concern for himself had been subsumed into a general sense of terror and panic; now that he’d been forced to watch Johnny being raped and tortured, the words of his tormentor meant little.

The fact that he couldn’t breathe, though—that was something else. He’d loved his son, in his own sick way—but he needed to breathe. Ed went rigid immediately, fighting for air; the secondary pain of his gold cross, caught under the strap and digging into his flesh, was but a minor annoyance at the moment.

“That’s it, cumsucker!” Nick crowed. “I knew ya had some fight left in ya; you faggots are too stupid to know death when ya see it. Well, don’t worry, cunt, it’s gonna take several minutes to choke the life outta ya; you’ll have plenty of time to learn that yer dyin’.”

As the crushing pain circling his throat intensified, Ed was also aware of how much harder his ass was being pumped by the younger, stronger top. And another presence—the other one, the one who killed Johnny—he was there, shoving a camera into Ed’s face.

And whispering.

“Hey, man,” Carlos was hissing, “Yer boy died hard. Didja like watchin’ it? Fuckin’ hot as hell, wasn’t it? It felt so fuckin’ good, makin’ him suffer, and now yer gonna do the same for my bro here, yeah? And the best part is, we been recordin’ it all. Dudes all over the world are gonna pay us so they can beat off watchin’ you and yer cocksuckin’ kid get snuffed—ain’t that sexy shit? Smile for the camera, asswipe, give ‘em a grin before ya get offed.”

The older man thrashed and heaved violently on the mattress, his chest and hard, flat belly writhing against Nick’s as their body fur interlocked like a zipper. His handsome face was growing congested as the holster strap sank deeper into his neck. His dark eyes bulged open, forcing him to stare into the faces of the two grinning alpha killers hovering over him, two hard, muscled men taking pleasure in his pain and suffering—

—and he was suffering. Nick had never stopped fucking him, but now the sadistic top was aggressively plunging his engorged tool deeper into Ed’s rectum than ever before; even this pleasure had become agony. The metal handcuffs that kept his arms twisted excruciatingly behind his back had dug in his wrists far enough to cut off the flow of blood to his hands; they were nothing but useless, throbbing lumps.

But the trauma being inflicted on his throat was merely the most unendurable; not only was his esophagus slowly compacting into a mangled mass, but his own pendant—the gold cross (that he’d always secretly superstitiously believed would protect him from the evil he now knew existed beyond any doubt) was compressed so firmly into the tender flesh on the side of his neck that it was literally tearing the skin, making a trickle of blood seep onto the sheets.

“Ya likin’ that shit, fuckwad?” Nick taunted his older but well-developed victim. “Yer ass is grabbin’ my cock like it wants more—fuck, man, if I’d known it took a good strong chokeout to make ya work my shaft right, I’d squeezed yer throat long before now. Hey, bro,” he called over to Carlos, “Did he teach his fucktoy kid right or did ya have stick ‘im first to have fun?”

“Naw, dude,” Carlos drawled, winking and sticking his tongue out at Ed’s swelling, horror-filled face, “Stupid sack of shit acted like he’d never had a dick up his ass till I slipped my shank into his guts—an’ even then, I hadda twist the blade in ‘im before he really showed how much he liked gettin’ buttfucked.”

“Shit, man,” Nick snarled down at Ed, “Like father, like son. Both of ya lousy fag fucks who need pain to teach ya how to take a real man’s hog, ain’t that right, cunt?”

The buff sadist pumped his tool up the dying porn star’s colon with ruthless efficiency; his biceps and triceps, already glistening with mansweat, began to bulge with the effort he put into cranking Ed’s windpipe permanently shut.

Ed could feel it, too, the effort Nick was expending on both his neck and his fuckhole. The jackhammer pounding of his frantic pulse in his head was echoed in the furious reaming that his rectum was enduring; there was a fiery ball of pressure that was swelling in his chest and his face was about to burst—and then his eyes…oh fuck, he couldn’t close his eyes, the hard, handsome faces of his killers hovering over him, so close they could kiss…with a sense of despair, he realized that their jeering triumph in his death would be the last thing he’d see on earth…

And still they tortured him, not just physically, but mentally as well.

Carlos was particularly cruel; as he sneered and spit on their helpless victim, his thick cock—still hanging out of his tight leather pants, dripping with cum—began to stiffen again. “I really got off on hurtin’ yer son, ya perverted fuck,” he whispered. “He was really cryin’ for his daddy when he died—too bad you were too busy gettin’ fucked, faggot. Know what part’s the best? Loadin’ him up with my seed. It don’t matter how many times ya fucked yer little boy in the ass, he’s gonna end up takin’ a nice long dirt nap fulla my jizz, not yers, asswipe.”

“Goddammit,” Nick barked in intense anger, “Yer gettin’ loose, old man. What, ya want it tighter—or ya need some more pain? Yeah, that’s it—just like any other faggot, I’m gonna hafta hurt ya to make ya grip my shaft right.” Twisting the ends of the strap together, the sweating, powerful killer yanked them to one side so he could hold them both in the same hand; as he did, Ed’s gold cross bent under the stress of the increased pressure, tearing an agonizing three-inch slash into the side of Ed’s throat as it did so. Sadly for Ed, it did no further damage—he had no hope of escaping his suffering by bleeding out.

But even that pain was soon overtaken by new suffering. The buff, strong—but not quite strong enough—musclebound victim hadn’t noticed the sidelong glance Nick had slipped Carlos. Carlos, did, though, and recognized it as a hint for a close-up. Zooming the camera in on Ed, he had a perfect angle to capture Nick balled-up fist raining blows into the bound, trapped stud’s dark, puffy face.

Nick paused to catch his breath; without dropping the tempo of his brutal assfuck, he pulled back a bit, still gripping the leather holster strap tightly in one hand. The lifted the meat’s head up from the blood-spattered pillow. Carlos leaned forward, allowing the fag’s battered and swollen face to fill the frame. Ed had been a strikingly handsome man of thirty-seven, with his testosterone-influenced receding hairline, his honey-gold goatee and the long lashes rimming his large, dark, liquid eyes.

The only thing recognizable in the bloody, pulped ruin now being captured on camera was the goatee surrounding the swollen, blue lips.

“Fuck, dude,” Carlos panted as he looked into Ed’s violently-beaten face, “I think this meat’s nearly done. Ya fucked it over real good, bro.” The erotic hoarseness in his voice was underscored by the steady transparent stream oozing from his by-now fully erect dick.

Semi-conscious in a universe of screaming pain, some pig corner tucked into the back of Ed’s brain heard and agreed. His own thick, vein-wreathed rod, already achingly stiff, smacking swiftly between his own and Nick’s flat, furry bellies in time to the rapid assfuck, suddenly began to splatter beads of precum everywhere.

“Yeah?” Nick grinned at Carlos (and the camera), his cruel sadism glinting in his eyes like a cold light. “Think it’s time to put the fucker down? Ya may be right, bro; I’m gettin’ kinda bored with these faggots. Guess it’s time to dump my load and split.”

He shifted slightly as Carlos moved closer to the headboard and reversed the angle, looking down on the writhing, interlocked male bodies, glistening with sweat and slapping together in a swift, animalistic rhythm.

Nick was close to shooting his load, but he recognized that he’d brutalized the meat too much for any further mental abuse to avail. He needed one final blow to the nervous system, quick, strong and fatally brutal, to make the faggot’s fuckhole tighten up around his cock.

He knew exactly what to do. Wrapping the strap ends around the palm of his right hand, Nick placed his right hand flat on the meat’s slick, heaving (but not breathing) chest. Lowering his face, the psychopathic sex killer glanced up at Carlos and the camera impishly through his own tousled bangs.

“Hey, bro,” he whispered, “Check this shit out.”

And then he jerked on the holster strap. Hard. Gritting-his-teeth hard, tendons-standing-out on his-neck hard, veins-standing-out-on-bicep hard. At the same time, grunting with the physical strain, he shoved his other arm down on the fuckmeat’s muscled chest. The buff older man’s face bent forward and his neck seemed to elongate. As his face turned down, his thick, protruding tongue pushed out of his mouth, forcing a long foamy stream of drool to fall into his chest fur.

“That’s it, cunt, time to go bye-bye,” Nick hissed and yanked again. There was a sickeningly loud cracking, crunching sound as the muscle-bound alpha literally tore his victim’s head off the top of his spine, crushing the esophagus and shattering three vertebrae simultaneously.

The impact to Ed’s nervous system was immediate. He died instantly, his entire musculature going rigid in a heartbeat. The muscles in his cock stiffened, forcing a violent eruption of semen from his agonizingly erect shaft. The first load was so abrupt and intense, it actually shot between his head and Nick’s, splashing against the wall three feet above the top of the headboard—although some fallout landed in his dark blond hair.

At the same time, his colon and lower intestines contracted around Nick’s engorged cock; it was like a hand in a velvet glove jacking him off. With a loud, inarticulate cry, Nick flooded the meat’s guts with boiling sperm. He continued to twist Ed’s head around, mangling the spinal column.

This triggered Ed’s second deathload, a steady jet of spunk that lasted a good ten seconds straight, spewing huge pearly loads of spunk all over both his chest and that of his killer. This load, though was interrupted by a third one, form a different source.

Still holding the camera, recording all the action, Carlos had shot a second wad completely hands-free. Recorded for the paying viewers to see, his thick, creamy load squirted a flood of hot manseed over both the corpse and its killer.

“That’s it, bro,” Nick gasped hoarsely, “Spunk all over that fuckin’ faggot!” Inwardly, he exulted in feeling Carlos’s hot semen splatter on his chest, but, still ejaculating uncontrollably himself, he didn’t process the emotion; he could only shudder and shoot.

Several cum-drenched minutes later, Nick and Carlos both found themselves in enough control of themselves to disengage from the bed and get themselves cleaned up. Carlos moved first—largely because, unlike Nick, his dick wasn’t stuck in a quivering corpse. Retreating to the bathroom to wash up, he chuckled with contemptuous amusement at Johnny’s meth pipe sitting on the top of the toilet cistern, along with a lighter and small baggie partially full of powder. He left them alone.

Nick, for his part, withdrew his leaking shaft for the dead man. He rolled Ed over and uncuffed him; when he did, the shuddering body slid limply to the floor with a thump. Picking up his discarded cop outfit, he went back through the connecting door into the adjoining room, using that bathroom to wash off the evidence of violent sex.

By this time, Carlos had finished up and returned into the death room. He gathered up his own gear, including the gun and the holster harness Nick had used to kill Ed; that took a bit of time to recover, given how deeply it was embedded in the meat’s neck. At one point, he ground his boot into Ed’s face to hold his head down as he pried the strap out of the corpse’s crushed throat. He carried the armful of gear back into the other room and dumped it on the bed, only to be brought up short when Nick asked, “Where’s yer shank, bro?”

He couldn’t remember what he’d done with it. He went back into the other room and began poking around on the bed; almost immediately, he noticed it tangled in the sheet on the other side of the teenager’s cooling, stiffening corpse. It was still covered in gore, so Carlos used the cheap motel sheet to wipe it down; his actions made the bed shake slightly. Not enough, but enough to dislodge Johnny’s body. The dead teen rolled off the bed, landing on top of his father’s corpse. Ed was face-up and Johnny face-down; they’d have been looking each other in the eye, had Johnny’s eyes not been rolled too far back in his head that only the whites showed from under his half-open lids.

Just then, Nick came back into the room. “Aw, ain’t that sweet,” he jeered, “the faggot lovebirds united forever in death. Let ‘em rot there. You get the cameras on that side an’ I’ll get the ones on this side. We should be able to clear out in about half an hour or so.”

Because of the layout of the room, the bodies on the floor between the beds made it difficult to reach everything on his side, which might account for what happened later. But Nick had been right; they were gone within thirty minutes.

The bodies weren’t found for another eighteen hours; the maid who found them subsequently required psychiatric treatment, as did one of the two first responding police officers. The other, a twenty-six year old rookie named Rog, found a camera tripod that had fallen behind one of the beds. Even before the autopsy results revealed that both males had been raped as well as murdered, Rog had realized that someone, somewhere, had a video of what happened.

And despite the tremendous swell in publicity surrounding the case once DNA results revealed that the victims were father and son, Rog kept his surmises to himself, and laid his plans.

Nick was laying plans, too. The commission was not only paid promptly, it included a sizeable gratuity—and a distribution agreement, with a percentage on the gross.

“Shit, bro, we’re gonna be fuckin’ millionaires,” he laughed a week later. He and Carlos were both sitting in the office. “I already paid the condo off. Think I’m gonna soundproof that second bedroom. We can have all kinda fun in there.”

Carlos didn’t care; Nick was giving him all the cash he needed. He had wheels and a crib—and the opportunity to waste any fag he wanted, when he wanted…how he wanted…

“Cool, dude,” he drawled contentedly. “Ya got any new hits?”

“I got a message yesterday, saying somthin’ might be coming. Believe it or not, I haven’t checked email yet; I was too busy payin’ off debts. Lessee if we got anything.”

Turning on the monitor, Nick fired up the PC, grinning broadly. Part of it was the financial—and artistic, so to speak—success. But part of it was what he’d learned about Carlos. Straight, my ass, some cold, calculating part of his mind thought—he mighta gone into prison straight, but he came out a full-blown fag. That might come in handy someday.

It took a while for the system to boot up; it took even longer for the email to come up. Carlos had lost interest and was surfing on his phone when a loud ping echoed through the office. Nick clicked on a couple of things, then his eyes grew wide.

When the light changed, Carlos eased off the brake and turned left off the Strip, heading east on Flamingo. Even though it was past one in the morning, the crowds on Las Vegas Boulevard had diminished only slightly; it took several minutes to complete the turn while he waited for the idiots who’d decided to cross against the signal.

Finally the way was clear; Carlos gunned the Benz. He’d gotten angry at the delay. Given that he was already bored and horny, it was a lethal combination.

Someone was gonna die tonight. Somewhere out there was a fag who was gonna soak up Carlos’s cum and die on his dick.

Nick was out of town. He’d had a sudden offer to film a straight snuff flick in Tahoe; he’d packed his equipment in his truck and driven up yesterday. Prior to that, though, they’d planned to go hunting this weekend. With Nick gone, Carlos had decided not to alter his plans.

So here he was, heading east on Flamingo. It was a pleasant night with the temperature in the mid-seventies, so the top was down on the bright red luxury car. Inside, the hard-bodied convict displayed his broad, sculpted chest and flat ripped abs in a leather vest with no shirt underneath; a thick gold chain sparkled alluringly around his muscular throat. His skin-tight black leather jeans were tucked into a pair of engineer boots.

And he’d found something while idly poking around the condo last night—likely left over from one of Nick’s earlier flicks. A pair of thin leather gloves that fit Carlos’s powerful hands like a black second skin. He was wearing them now, as his fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly.

He turned right off Flamingo into what had been a decent middle-class neighborhood. Now it was little more than a cluster of run-down cinderblock homes with dirt yards and questionable tenants. There was still some activity on the street, most of it furtive and probably criminal, but Carlos couldn’t spot anything worth fucking.

Heading further south before turning east again, the leather-clad predator found the streets less well-lit—and less-populated. After a couple of blocks, he no longer saw anyone at all, so he turned back towards Flamingo, fuming in frustration

That was when he saw the boy.

He had come to a stop at a stop sign. The kid was on the sidewalk, leaning against the sign itself. Late teens or early twenties—at the latest—the punk had a mane of sandy blond hair that came nearly to his shoulders. Completely bare-chested, the youth wore a pair of denim shorts that stopped just above the knee. On the feet were a shiny pair of black Adidas Originals X hightops. Otherwise, the boy’s smooth, muscular body was as visible as meat on a butcher’s counter.

It seemed an odd place to find a trick, but the moment the convertible Benz came to a halt, the punk stepped off the curb and approaching the car, reached in. “You can put it in my mouth for twenty or my ass for fifty,” he said, grabbing the enormous bulge in the crotch of Carlos’s leather jeans.

For a moment, the brutal sadist was actually surprised. Prey was hunted; it didn’t just wander into the killing pit on its own—but this one had.

“How much for the rest of the evening?” Carlos asked, knowing that the amount the boywhore named wouldn’t matter, since he wouldn’t be in a condition to collect it anyway.

The rentboy’s eyes opened wide with surprised greed; he clearly hadn’t expected an offer of this magnitude. The eyes in question were dark, dark brown, almost black, and the white were stained red as a result of drugs and/or alcohol. “Two-fifty and you can do what ya want till morning,” the slut responded, its breath confirming the at least the alcohol part of Carlos’s estimation. The killer chuckled inwardly—this was Vegas, for fuck’s sake; kid with a body like that coulda asked for at least double that.

Good. Ain’t no one was gonna miss a cheap fucking fag whore.

“Get in,” Carlos said gruffly. “I ain’t fuckin’ ya in public, cunt, I got class. My place is a coupla miles north.” Class had nothing to do with it; he was gonna destroy this cheap-ass hustler, and he didn’t want an audience while he worked the bitch over.

The rentboy obeyed, jumping into the passenger seat and buckling himself in. As Carlos stepped on the gas, he noticed the kid sizing him up with sidelong glances. He also noticed—he couldn’t help it, it was too obvious—that a tentpole was stretching the denim in faggot’s groin. Little cocksucker was horny himself. Carlos headed out.

They were inside the condo in less than twenty minutes. “Damn,” the meat said, looking around in awe, “This is some nice crib ya got, dawg. Name’s Kris, by the way—Kris with a K.”

Carlos ignored the cunt and headed to the bedroom in silence. He didn’t turn on the bedside lamp; instead, he opened the curtain on the picture window, allowing the bright neon of the Strip to reflect gaudily off the gold satin bedspread.

Kris staggered in, his booze- and meth-addled head reeling in the kaleidoscopic effect the spectacular view provided. “Goddam,” he muttered. His bleary eyes lit up; Carlos could almost see dollar signs in them like a cartoon character’s. The muscle-bound sadist chuckled. Wheeling around the kid, he locked the bedroom door behind him. Kris was still too stunned by his surroundings to notice.

The boywhore was attuned enough to hear the stealthy sound of a zipper, though. He turned and directed his entire attention on Carlos’s crotch as the tattooed stud extracted the full length of his horse-like dick from the confines of his tight leather jeans. The glistening tube of meat fell out and slapped against the alpha’s thigh, throbbing and swelling as it bobbed in the air.

Kris gasped. The whore had seen lots of cocks, but had never come across one quite this large. Even as he watched beads of precum well up on the pulsing purple tip, he could feel his own boyjuice start to trickle from his straining, aching shaft. Instinctively, he reached down and grabbed the bulge in his groin. He gave his tight waist a quick jerk and his denim shorts slid to the floor. Stepping out of them, Kris grabbed his cock and stood fondling it in nothing but his shiny black Adidas hightops.

Kris staggered across the room towards Carlos. He liked being used, and he was high enough to let anyone use him, but the combination of lust for this dominant hunk and chemical confusion led him to ignore any red flags—like the tattoos. Despite his age—he was a couple of months shy of his twenty-first birthday, not even old enough yet to buy beer legally—he was no stranger to crime or convicts. He knew the meaning of some of Carlos’s inks—and recognized the amateurish nature of others that indicated a prison origin.

It didn’t matter. The dude had the body of a god. And he was gonna pay him enough to stay high for three days straight, maybe more. Maybe, if he played his cards right, this guy could become a regular customer—fuck, lookit this place, he must be fuckin’ loaded…

“Suck my cock, faggot!” Carlos snapped, cutting through Kris’s reverie. Before he could respond appropriately, Kris found that he couldn’t respond at all—Carlos had literally taken matters into his own hands by grabbing thick fistfuls of Kris’s hair and jerking the rentboy’s head forward until it was forced down onto the ex-con’s dick.

The well-used whore found his eyes watering as the massive flesh tube was thrust inexorably past his tonsils, the thick mushroom tip slipping into his esophagus on a lube of spit and precum. The young homo was an experienced cocksucker; he knew how to control his breathing while sucking a pulsing, vein-wrapped hog down his throat—but this was manmeat of a different magnitude.

And Kris realized it once Carlos’s tool slid over his epiglottis and sealed of his airway. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe at all.

“Fuck, dude, is that all of me you can take?” Carlos sneered, “Whadda lousy cocksucker! Shit, whore, ya gotta do a lot better than that if ya wanna get paid—now swallow my fuckin’ dick, you worthless homo slut!”

Kris’s hand’s reached out in from of him, looking for support, something to brace himself, as Carlos’s grip intensified and he plunged his iron-hard shaft further down the boy’s throat. The hard-bodied alpha began to throatfuck the punk, but never drew his shaft out far enough for Kris to take a breath.

The helpless rentboy was too drunk and too high to fully understand what was happening; he just knew he couldn’t breathe. His hands had finally made contact with the smooth, pumping firmness of Carlos’s leather-clad thighs, but no matter how hard he pushed back, all he seemed likely to do was tear open his scalp where the vicious sociopath still held a tight grip.

As the young faggot whore jerked and writhed under him, Carlos closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure. “Choke on it, cocksucker, choke on my cock, you worthless motherfucker! That’s it, work my load out, bitch—take this one and if yer lucky, I’ll give ya another!”

Kris heard him. His response was divided; his logical mind ignored the words and kept beating against those strong, thrusting thighs, wrapped in black leather, while his unconscious absorbed the full meaning, causing the slim but well-built young pansy’s own cock to swell painfully.

The kneeling slut could hear his pulse pounding in his head; the rapid, frenetic tempo seemed to match the speed at which the cruel, leering top was facefucking him. His chest seemed to balloon up, swelling in agony as froth spilled from both nostrils. Kris could feel his eyes bulge; his sight went dim and his panicked struggles slowed and became more rhythmic.

Just as Kris’s consciousness started to fade, the powerful convict, still holding him in an inescapable grip, began to shudder and grunt uncontrollably. Even on the verge of asphyxia, the experience cumsucker knew an incipient orgasm; if he could only hold on a little longer…there!

The young faggot felt the thick, wide base of the alpha’s cock pulse as it pumped a solid stream of cum down his throat. Kris had no choice but to swallow; he was literally just trying to stay conscious as the muscled stud unloaded a massive amount of spunk, jets of hot creamy sperm shooting into his belly as the huge shaft of manmeat continued to throb and pump.

Kris felt like he was drowning in cum. His burning, heaving lungs seemed to be filling up with manseed as the brutally aggressive top emptied his massive, puckered balls. Suddenly, the hot dude let go and Kris fell back into a huddled heap on the floor. He gasped, choked, and coughed up an enormous wad of cum. It dribbled down his chin as he panted and drooled, trying to regain his breath.

Finally, the shaken and cowed boywhore turned his paradoxically innocent face up to that of his assailant, his dark eyes wide with shock. The well-endowed ex-con towered over him, his monstrous cock jutting out from the black leather darkness of his crotch. Above, even in the semi-darkness, Kris could trace the amateur tattoos inked on the killer’s rippled abs and broad, sculpted chest, even under the latter’s body fur and leather vest.

The faint glitter of the gold chain was visible around the thick, bull-like neck. And above that, the handsome, chiseled face—despite the trauma he’d just endured, Kris could feel his own shaft stiffen as he gazed on the john’s wiry black goatee and stared into those blue eyes, flinty with a cold rage. The incredible stud wore a do-rag on his head; it seems to be shiny black satin. In the back of his head, Kris wondered if this hot, scary-ass fucker was shaved like a skinhead…

Then the hard, cruel face broke into an open sneer. “Don’t get comfortable, faggot,” Carlos snarled, “There’s a fuck of a lot more where that came from. I got another load already churnin’ in my scrote, bitch.”

The words snapped the slut out of his reverie. The meth he’d smoked and the Colt 45’s he’d drunk had dimmed his sense of danger, but not his sense of business. Sadly for him, it led him to miscalculate and make a bad business decision. He decided that there was enough demand to inflate his price.

“D-dude,” he coughed, still choking on Carlos’s spunk, “If yer gonna do that kinda shit—get all rough and shit—you gotta pay more. At least four or five big ones, man.”

“You worthless piece of shit,” Carlos returned in an even, toneless voice. “We had an agreement.”

“Yeah, and now I’m uppin’ the price, man. I can take gettin’ used, dawg, but you gotta pay extra for that freaky chokin’ shit, see?”

Even in his drugged state, Kris could feel the tension in the room thicken like glue. He half-expected the stud to explode in rage; he was somewhat disconcerted when the guy gave him a cold, shark-like grin instead. “Sure,” the alpha replied, “I’ll go to five if ya want.”

There was something about his malicious chuckle that raised Kris’s hackles. He suspected he was gonna get ripped off. “Show me,” he said suspiciously, still sitting on the floor with his firm, buff legs curled under him. “I wanna see yer cash, dude. Course, if ya ain’t got it, I’ll take meth, or coke. I mean look at this set-up—ya gotta have one of the three around here.”

The boywhore knew the value of his body and was trying to use it to get what he wanted. What he got was something he feared—something he’d heard about often enough, since it was an occupational hazard. He just never thought it’d happen to him.

His first clue was the flash in the older stud’s eyes; it was literally as if a light had shone momentarily. Unfortunately for Kris, he didn’t see the glare of rage for what it was. “So what’s it gonna be, dawg? Cash or dope, dude, ya gotta pay up—”

And that was when Carlos said, again in his calm, toneless voice, “Naw, ya faggot cunt, yer the one who’s gotta pay.” The second he finished speaking, he drove his foot forward, sinking the steel toe of his leather engineer boot deeply into the yielding, unprepared flesh of Kris’s belly.

“HOOOGH!!!” the boycunt cried as the swift, vicious kick forced all the air from his lungs; grabbing his midsection, the youth doubled over in agony, his sweet, innocent face twisted in pain.

“Fuck yeah, now yer talkin’” Carlos crowed as he stood over the shuddering, gasping youth. “Ya like that, ya faggot cunt? Huh? That feel good, cocksucker? Cause just like my load, there’s plenty more where that come from!”

Fighting against the physical trauma, Kris managed to inhale deeply enough to regain control of himself. He knew now, beyond any drugged doubt, that he’d picked up a bad john. He knew he’d let his defenses down and that his survival depended on his getting away from this psycho motherfucker as soon as possible.

So he bolted for the door.

He was already low to the ground so he lunged forward, below the grasp of the killer alpha—he hoped. Scooting past Carlos, he grabbed the doorknobs for the double bedroom doors. He didn’t stop to notice that the hulking stud wasn’t coming after him.

He did notice that he couldn’t open the doors.

Kris jerked frantically on the doorknobs as he became aware that Carlos had finally turned and was moving towards him. Whimpering in horror, the blond whore stopped trying to open the doors and beat on them mindlessly as death approached slowly and deliberately.

A strong hand gripped his shoulder and despite his hard dick, Kris was vaguely aware that he was pissing himself in terror. The yellow fluid spurted from his erect shaft again when he felt the grip on his other shoulder. When Carlos whispered, “Big mistake, asswipe,” a flood of urine splashed from Kris’s cock, splattering his black hightops, but before he knew what he was doing, he was flipped in the air up over Carlos’s shoulder and slammed back down flat on the floor face-down with rib-shattering violence.

Kris’s breath was driven from his muscled frame with a loud, agonized grunt. As he moaned and writhed on the floor, the killer’s big black boots stepped into view. Suddenly, Carlos squatted down. Grabbing a fistful of long blond hair, he pulled the kid’s head back, twisting it to the side so he could look into the slut’s pale, terrified face.

Carlos let go of Kris’s hair and stood back up, then, with a swift kick, slammed his boot into the weeping punk’s face and snapped a cheekbone. The handsome blond whore squealed, grabbing at his injured face and groveling on the floor. “Shaddup, ya worthless cockpig,” the hypersexual alpha snarled, his thick tool still erect and dripping as he bent down and jerked Kris by the hair yet again.

This time, he forced the trembling youth upright and up against the wall in the corner of the bedroom. Finding himself trapped with the well-built powerful body of the vicious killer in front of him, Kris began babbling. Tears streaked down his bruised, swelling face as he begged for his life.

His shrill pleas were suddenly cut off when a hand encased in a tight black leather glove closed around his throat. Kris opened his eyes wide, just in time to see the other gloved hand, balled into a fist, drawn back then rocketing towards him with blinding speed.

The blow landed on Kris’s nose, smashing it with a wet, squelching sound. The hot young slut jerked, his howl of pain managing to escape Carlos’s grip on his neck. The vicious stud cut the cry off with another swift punch; this one caught the bitch on his jaw, snapping his mouth shut so fast and so hard that the boy bit through his bottom lip. After that, the succession of belts and bashes to the face were brutally regular.

Kris was stunned, his head rocking back under the hail of blows that were slamming against it. As blood flowed from his split lip and bruises bloomed on his young, smooth face, the whimpering cunt could just barely make out the words his assailant was hissing with malevolent glee.

Carlos paused, his large, muscled body heaving and slick with sweat. Kris focused his blackened, swollen eyes on the powerfully-built alpha. It was drawn first to the thick gold chain around the convict’s neck, glinting and highlighting the buff killer’s neck tats. But then he shifted to Carlos’s balled fist, drawn back to shoulder level and waiting, ready to spring into action in the blink of an eye, inflicting even more agony and more damage.

During the tension-laden pause in the violence, Kris had time to notice that the skin-tight glove looked wet. His already drugged and now brutalized brain didn’t have time to realize that his own blood was too dark to show on the black leather. Then his attention was drawn back to the cold, hard masculine countenance of his killer.

“You wanted money,” Carlos whispered, his eyes narrowing with a piercing, ice-cold rage. The expression would have made Kris piss himself again if anything had been left in his flaccid bladder. “How much was it, cunt? How much didja want me to pay?”

Kris blinked dazedly and moaned. With unbelievable speed, the sadistic alpha drove his bulging, inked arm into the rentboy’s face with the force of a jackhammer; after an intense, bright-red explosion of agony, the hard-bodied young whore shuddered and coughed up a bicuspid.

“Answer me, you cumsucking cunt, or I’m gonna knock out yer teeth one by one, ya hear? How much? How much didja want, faggot?”

“T-t-two h-hundr-dr-dred…” Kris muttered, barely afloat in a sea of pain. There was a slight whistling sound caused by the gap in his teeth.

Carlos’s face twisted in anger. “Lyin’ homo bitch!” he snarled, slamming another right hook into the youth’s jaw. “It was two-fifty, yeah? That’s what ya think yer worth, you piece of shit? You stupid cumsuckin’ motherfucker, didja really think I was so desperate to fuck your worn-out asshole that I’d spend that much for ya?”

He punctuated his contempt with another blow. Kris could sense this one coming and tried to turn away but the hand of the buff sadist was gripping his neck too tightly for him to move.

Not that it mattered. Carlos went low this time, delivering a devastating and excruciating gutpunch. His gloved fist smacked into Kris smooth, flat belly; despite the kid’s firm abs, the jab sank in deeply. The whore’s throat wasn’t closed off and the gutbash drove the air out of him in a loud, deep grunt.

“And now you want more, you fucking pervert? Ya want more money cause you ain’t enough of a faggot to take my cock? Fuck, bitch, if I’m gonna pay that much, I wanna free trial. Ha! Yeah, cunt, I think I’m gonna try before I buy—you gonna guarantee my satisfaction, huh? Fuck no you ain’t, you reamed-out pansy-ass whore; ain’t no way a little queer pain pig like you gonna satisfy a real man!”

What happened next happened so quickly that Kris wasn’t even aware that it happened at all. With one hand around Kris’s jaw, Carlos bent down and, reaching under the whoreboy’s oozing cock, grabbed his ass. Standing back up, the muscled convict pivoted and tossed the youth onto the bed. He was standing near the foot of the bed so that Kris landed on his left side, head toward the headboard.

Rolling onto his back, Kris gurgled and gasped, still trying to recover his breath. His bruised and swollen eyes were difficult to open but when they did, he had a blurred view of the hulking form of Carlos towering over him at the foot of the bed, his amazingly sculpted torso glistening with sweat in the reflected light that also glittered on the gold chain at his throat.

With exaggerated slowness, the aggressive sadist slipped off his leather vest. His massive cock dangled over Kris’s fit and nubile body, hot precum dripping onto the kid’s flesh and burning it like melted wax. The panicked whore tried to beg, to plead for forgiveness or mercy or something—it didn’t matter—but was so terrified that nothing emerged from his trembling lips beyond a shuddering moan.

Stooping down, Carlos grabbed Kris’s legs and pulled them up as he climbed onto the bed so that the boy’s shiny Adidas kicks were resting on his shoulders. Bending the rentboy double, he slapped the swollen purple head of his cock against the slut’s puckered fuckhole.

Then all the pain Kris had experienced faded to the intensity of love taps compared to what he had to endure—it was as if someone had suddenly and unexpectedly shoved a baseball bat up his ass without warning and without lube. If the hot young boywhore had been able to breathe, he might have screamed; as it was, all he could do was flap his jaw and gasp like a dying fish.

The pain was so mind-shattering that Carlos had pumped his enormous shaft up Kris’s ass half a dozen times before the latter realized he was getting buttfucked. While his rectum was being brutally shredded, the well-built rentboy writhed on the smooth satin bedspread and tried desperately to inhale. He succeeded—but not for long.

His mistake was screaming. Deep in his pig soul, Kris knew that it was a mistake, but he was in too much agony to control himself, and he was too terrified to try. The whore was well aware that he was trapped, pinned helplessly under his muscle-bound rapist.

He was also aware of the stories that circulated among the hustler crowd—horror stories of boys who’d gone off with the wrong trick, only to be found tortured, raped and murdered when they were found at all. He’d always listened to the tales with a sort of amused contempt, not fully believing them, and certain that he was far too smart to be caught in such a situation should it occur.

But tonight he’d been drunk and high and horny. He’d mixed business and pleasure and had been too fucked up to recognize any red flags. It was his own fault but if he could just survive this night—

—and then the panic bubbled over and the welling scream finally burst from Kris’s swollen, bleeding lips.

“Goddam, ya stupid sack a’ shit, shut the fuck up!” Carlos bark, his face twisted in rage. He rested more of his heavy, buff body on the flailing punk, pinning the cunt to the bed with his cock. Kris’s own swollen, throbbing cock was pressed between their two flat, firm bellies; his hightops jerked and kicked on his rapist’s shoulders As Carlos leaned in, his hard, handsome, cruel face filling Kris’s field of vision, the boy inhaled the deep masculine scents of pheromones and mansweat.

“I’m sick of yer squealin’, pig,” Carlos hissed, “And it’s time for you to die anyway. Beatin’ the fuck outta yer fag ass got me all kinda hard, bitch, huh? Yeah, ya like that idea? Ya like gettin’ worked over by a real man, faggot? Fuckin-A, I think I’m blow a load here soon—ya know what that means, dontcha, ya homo cumdump? It means I’m gonna put ya down like a fuckin’ dog—fuck, I hope this hurts. I hope ya die in horrible fuckin’ agony, dude—it’s so goddam hot!”

With a quick shift of his arms, Carlos wrapped one leather-gloved hand around Kris’s neck and clamped the other over the whore’s face, sealing off his mouth and nose. Just before his air was cut off, Kris got whiff of musky leather scent from the black glove.

Then he realized he was suffocating.

Carlos hunched down over the helpless youth, their torsos pressed together in hot sweaty mansex, fur scraping over skin on a lube of testosterone-spiked perspiration. Kris’s battered, blackened eyes bulged in terror as the convict sneered and spit in his face. The whore closed his eyes but couldn’t turn his head—Carlos was putting a lot of his weight on his arms; his hand was literally crushing the cunt’s nose and lips.

Some part of his mind, walled off from the agony of the brutal assrape, was able to discern a faint jingling sound amid the grunting of the rutting top and the noise of violent sex. Feeling the killer’s spittle slide down his cheek, Kris opened his eyes again, catching sight of Carlos’s gold chain. The boy knew what the jingling sound had been. The thick chain seem to be dancing in the air with malicious glee, coming to life with each of its owner’s deep, repeated thrusts.

Each penetrating plunge of his killer’s cock brought searing agony to Kris’s rectum, but every part of his body was flooded with pain. Beyond the shiny dark do-rag covering Carlos’s head, Kris could see his own hightops kicking feebly in the air; he had no idea that the slashing pain across his midsection was from being doubled-over. Carlos’s ferocious gutpunch had torn the slut’s liver; this position was tearing it even more. Left untreated, the injury was large enough to cause Kris to bleed to death internally with about forty-five minutes…

But there was other pain. His once-adorable face had been beaten to an unrecognizable pulp out of which his large brown eyes now protruded grotesquely, tiny hemorrhages popping up in the whites. His long blond hair, dark and matted with sweat, was spread in tangles across the gold satin comforter. And the excruciating pressure that the muscled and tattooed convict was now exerting on his already-broken nose and torn lips made him claw frantically at the killer’s hands—only to find the leather gloves so smooth and tight he was unable to catch a grip.

And then the pain got really bad. It got bad because Kris had been without oxygen for almost a minute; reflexively, his body fought for survival by dumping a shitload of adrenaline into the dying rentboy’s bloodstream. When it hit his brain, it triggered a tsunami of panic.

Kris was suddenly very, very aware that he was dying.

He jerked and kicked desperately, his hands flailing against Carlos’s rock-hard body. One hand reached up to the sadist’s grinning face, scraping at the rough stubble on his face; the other hand, grabbing at Carlos’s chest, managed to snatch the gold chain and yank it, but the thick metal links didn’t give way. The kid let go, reaching around to beat fruitlessly against the stud’s steel-like bicep.

Carlos stopped thrusting, giving his powerful thighs a break. He didn’t need to pump any more anyway; the meat was doing the work for him now. It was something he’d learned from Nick—at a certain point, the fuckmeat loses its shit and starts bucking like a bronco.

“All ya gotta do then,” Nick had said, “Is pretend like yer breakin’ a horse, ya know? Ya gotta stay in the saddle and ride it till it tires out. If ya work it right, you can hold the fag in that position and make it milk your cock until it’s down for good and you can let those fuckin’ hot-ass anal convulsions jack ya off…”

That was exactly what Carlos was doing now. His huge, powerful arms were clamped onto Kris’s face and neck and locked like iron bars. His monstrously engorged shaft was buried deep in the youth’s guts. His leather-clad legs were spread wide, his engineer boots secure on the floor, giving his hunched-over posture the stability to keep the struggling rentboy pinned into place.

“That’s it,” he murmured quietly, barely above a whisper, “That’s it, bitch, fight it. Keep fightin’ you useless faggot whore, keep fightin’ for yer worthless life—it ain’t gonna do you no good, but it’s doin’ me plenty good right now, cunt! Fuck yeah, keep it up, motherfucker, yer working my tool so fuckin’ good right now—aw, fuck, dude, is that yer tongue? I can feel it through the glove, cocksucker, yer tongue is stickin’ out! Ya know what that means? It means yer dyin’, asswipe, yer gonna die here and now with my hog up yer guts—ain’t that so fuckin’ hot, ya cumsuckin’ fag?”

Trembling on the verge of brain death, Kris heard the words and understood them but wasn’t able to process them fully through the roaring, pulsing silence that was darkening his pain-wracked existence. Pressure was building in too many places—his head, his ass, his chest, his scrotum—that he couldn’t focus on anything.

His frenetic clawing had stopped; his hands were now gripping Carlos’s upper arms tightly in what could have been mistaken for the acquiescent clutch of an eager, willing bottom. His wild thrashing slowed to a more rhythmic movement. As silent explosions burst in his head and dimmed his vision, Kris was still aware of his painfully-erect dick. It had been—and still was being—massaged between his flat, smooth, sweat-slick belly and Carlos’s hard, ripped, furry abs and had not stopped throbbing and oozing throughout Kris’s ordeal.

Carlos had noticed it too. “You fuckin’ disgustin’ faggot pig,” he sneered, hocking up a wad of phlegm and spitting it into the whore’s tear-streaked face. “You deserve this, you piece of queer shit, dontcha? Ya know it, too, cocksucker—that’s why yer dick is hard, innit? Fuckin’ homosexual scumbag pervert, ya know ya need to get put down like a cock-worshippin’ pig! This is what ya needed, huh—a real man to take ya out? You were just waiting for the right dude to come along, weren’t ya—someone man enough to treat ya like the worthless piece of garbage ya are?”

The sadistic killer’s cruel words faded to a ringing echo in Kris’s mind as more and more of his brain failed from oxygen deprivation. His hands slid up Carlos’s arms and over his shoulders, past his own sporadically quivering black Adidas hightops. As death approached swiftly, Kris’s hands clutched Carlos’s muscular back. Jerking his arms involuntarily in his final few moments, the young boywhore held his murderer in an embrace tighter than any lover’s.

As a result, their faces were close together at the end. Kris was being crushed in the grip of an icy, all-consuming darkness, but he could still feel parts of his body—and he could hear.

“Ok, faggot, I’m gettin’ bored with yer ass—you done worn out yer welcome, bitch. I got shit to do; I ain’t got all night waitin’ for you to get me off. I’m a busy man, dude, time for me to drain my load and move on. Yer a suck-ass whore, by the way—hope ya got cash in yer wallet, cunt; you owe me for the time I’m takin’ to waste yer useless ass. So ya ready to get this done? I sure the fuck am, scumbag. Die, you worthless motherfucker!”

It was a single swift movement that was utterly spontaneous; in the blink of an eye, Carlos had let go of Kris’s mouth, reaching up and grabbing a fistful of as much of the kid’s hair as he could. Wrapping it around his right hand, he yanked that arm back with a might jerk that made his inked bicep bulge even more; at the same time, he threw himself down with all his weight on his left arm.

Kris’s head snapped forward and, with the splintering sound of shattering vertebrae, popped off the top of his spinal column.

The whore’s last experience in his pathetic, wasted existence, was an electrical shock that ran through his entire body, holding him momentarily in an agonized paralysis as his balls exploded and released a raging flood of semen through his rigid shaft. His boiling deathload spewed in a solid stream of cum that lasted for a good fifteen seconds, hosing the dead slut’s belly and splattering up along Carlos’s chest.

Instinctively, Carlos bent his head back as a final wad shot between them, splashing against the picture window and smearing the view. Carlos’s reaction was instinctive because he was cumming so hard himself that his eyes rolled back in his head. His massive, well-built body bent back, rigid with extreme stress as the hulking alpha injected the dying boycunt with his load, pumping what felt like a dull quart of manseed into the dead kid’s convulsing fuckhole.

Carlos’s huge puckered scrote wasn’t empty, though—bending forward to send his second jet of spunk into the youth’s guts, the sadist was so lost in his bloodlust that he leaned too far forward over his victim. His boots had good deep tread, but they could only go so far.

Carlos fell forward, full-length on his victim’s trembling corpse. He ended up spewing his final wad into the dead boy with his face in the mattress, cheek-to-cheek with that of the corpse, now doubled over into a position that would be impossible for a living person.

And there they stayed for at least three minutes while Carlos regained control of himself. Heaving and panting, he finally straightened up, withdrawing his still-throbbing purple cock from his victim’s ruined anus. Heading for the bathroom, he kept one hand wrapped around the head of his shaft to avoid having any cum drip onto the carpet.

After all, he already had enough of a problem figuring out how to clean the bedspread and take out the garbage before Nick got back; he wasn’t afraid of Nick, but he wasn’t sure how the dude who paid the bills would react to something like this, so he wanted to keep it on the DL…

Carlos didn’t watch the videos Nick made of him; his interest was in the doing, not the viewing, for which Nick was grateful. The experienced snuff producer had known that the cameras he’d hidden in the condo—more than twenty in the bedroom itself—would come in handy with Carlos around.

He’d seen the video within an hour of returning from Tahoe; it was edited and posted online at a very high premium by that evening; it had returned a record profit by morning.

Travis took a huge swig of Jack before handing the bottle to Ryan and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. As he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, Ryan turned around and passed the bottle to Justin in the back seat. Justin returned the favor by handing Ryan the joint he’d just rolled.

“This weed’s pretty weak,” commented Justin after he’d swallowed a mouthful of the whiskey, “but we should be able to afford some good shit once we get paid.”

“Gotta do the work to get paid,” replied Travis. “Don’t get too fucked up. Sanchez said there might be some trouble tonight. Dunno what he’s heard, but he’ll treat us right if we keep everyone away from his field. And you know Sanchez’s weed is good. I got half an ounce in my boot now. We keep an eye on his grow operation and he’ll make sure we got plenty to smoke. Now shut up and let me drive. These logging trails are fuckin’ hell.”

Travis leaned forward and squinted, trying to make out the next turn the dirt road made. Travis was about twenty-five with long brown hair and a mean look on his acne-scarred face. He wore a black leather aviator’s jacket over a white t-shirt. His tight, ripped jeans were tucked into a pair of black harness boots, where a baggie of pot pressed against his ankle.

Travis was the town “problem”. Dropped out of school at sixteen, got by by selling drugs and doing odd jobs. He’d tried the biker lifestyle for about three days before he got so drunk he managed to end up ditching in the river. He never could remember how he’d done it, but he couldn’t afford another bike, so that was it for his crotch-rocket days.

Of course Ryan and Justin had gravitated towards him; he was their epitome of Cool. Ryan was twenty-one, with dark curly hair and a tuft on his chin that he thought of as a goatee. He wore a black t-shirt and gray jeans, with a white baseball cap. The work boots on his feet were clean because he didn’t do any work. He still lived with his folks, decent working-class people who had no idea that their son was a waste. He lived with them and ate their food, but he didn’t ask them for money because he got most of what he wanted by theft.

Justin, in the back seat, was the youngest at nineteen. He had more of a skater-rat look, with wavy auburn hair, skinny jeans and a hoodie, red skate shoes on his feet. He was nothing more than a small-time delinquent trying to gain some street cred by hanging around the local toughs.

They were headed out to Sanchez’s field—actually, a small clearing in the state forest. Sanchez had been growing his weed there for a while, using random occasional labor—Travis had done a lot of it; Sanchez had been his supplier for quite a while now.

Tonight, Sanchez had asked Travis to round up a couple of guys and keep an eye on the field. He didn’t say why. Evidently he had heard something—Travis thought it likely that a rival was going to make a move. He didn’t know what to expect, but he didn’t expect much. He’d chased off other growers before; they were pussies. Nothing to break a sweat over.

None of them knew they were going to die in excruciating pain in a very short time.

At a seemingly random place in the road, Travis pulled over and shut off the car (Ryan’s mother’s car, borrowed for the evening). They all got out. Travis turned to Justin.

“Dude, you stay here. Text me if you see or hear anything. We’re gonna go keep an eye on the field itself. You set up ok?”

Justin, who’d rolled himself three joints out of Travis’ stash, nodded. Travis and Ryan turned away and disappeared into the trees on the west side of the road. Justin leaned back against the car, fired up one of the jays and slipped his earphones in. In no time at all, he was groovin’ and flyin’, utterly unaware that he was being sized up for a kill.

The mercenaries crept forward silently, keeping their focus on the road. They had been hired to destroy a marijuana grow op. They were prepared to terminate any defense they encountered, by whatever means necessary.

There were two mercs, in black body suits and hoods, black tactical boots, black camo on their faces—absolutely invisible in the shadows of the forest. They had approached through the woods from the next logging road to the east, three miles as the crow flies. Justin was the first guard they came across and they were gonna make damn sure he didn’t have the chance to alert anyone.

Travis and Ryan split up when they reached the field. Ryan stayed on the east side of the field, closest to the road. Travis made sure Ryan was set up well and had a couple of jays tucked inside his boot too. The he made his way across to the west side. The clearing extended to a couple of acres, so when Travis got to the far side, he was some distance from Ryan.

Each of them was going to die alone.

Even if he hadn’t been rocking out, it’s unlikely Justin would have heard the faint crunch of the merc’s rubber-soled boot as he approached from behind. The kid had just taken a lung-busting hit off his joint when a kick to the back of his knee brought him down. A hand in a black leather fingerless glove clamped down over his forehead, middle fingers digging into Justin’s eyes. He gasped as his head was yanked back sharply.

He didn’t get the chance to exhale before the seven-inch serrated steel blade ripped his throat open.

Justin stiffened as the knife slashed mercilessly though his flesh and into his larynx. His involuntary scream of agony became a bubbling hiss, the coppery smell of blood blending in with the sweet scent of the smoke that had been trapped in the boy’s lungs and was now escaping through the gushing hole in his esophagus.

The merc held on tight as Justin kicked and jerked. Soon more primal smells prevailed—a dark stain spreading in the punk’s groin as the realization that he was dying pervaded his drug-fogged brain—Justin was pissing himself in terror. He could feel the terrible gash in his throat, could feel the blood filling his lungs with each desperate, gasping breath. He was dying, it hurt, it was going on so long…

When the merc let him go, Justin staggered to his feet, grabbing the terrible gash in his throat with both hands, feeling his blood pouring out around his fingers. He stumbled forward two steps, and then fell face-down in the road. He spent his last half-minute on earth inhaling mud made of the dirt road mixed with his own blood. In Justin’s last seconds, he was aware of the two dark figures that crossed the road and had a vague idea of demons. Then everything faded to gray.

Justin’s eyes glazed and his body continued to twitch and jerk for a few minutes. In the silence surrounding his corpse, the loudest sound was his red shoes scuffling in the dirt as neurons fired at random. Then there was nothing but a pile of cooling meat.

Ryan rubbed the bulge in his groin. He wasn’t particularly horny; he was just hard most of the time. He’d had a fair amount to drink tonight, though, so he didn’t think it was going to be an issue.

He’d already pulled a joint out of his boot and smoked it. He was thinking that Justin had been smart to bring some tunes; he wished he’d thought of it. He wasn’t given time to think of anything else. The cord that appeared out of nowhere, whipped round his neck and cut off his air also cut off whatever limited ability for rational thought that Ryan had ever had.

The boy fought hard for his life—harder than anyone who had seen him waste it would have thought warranted. He kicked and jerked like a trout on a line, thrashing about in a futile attempt to break free of the unknown force that was choking him to death.

As he struggled, Ryan reached back behind him in an instinctive drive to stop whatever was attacking him. He could feel the powerful muscles of the man behind him and heard his ragged breathing as he and his killer fought against one another. But Ryan was fighting without air–and was doomed.

As great dark patches appeared in his field of vision, Ryan could feel his face swelling with the terrible pressure that was building up. His eyes were starting to protrude and he could feel his tongue forcing its way out of his mouth. That wasn’t the only thing swelling, though. Vaguely at first, but growing more insistent, Ryan could feel his cock starting to strain as well.

It was surprising how it made a greater impression as his brain began to die. Ryan lost contact with various parts of his body as his nervous system began to shut down but the swelling and strain in his dick kept growing.

On the outside, the kid was drooling, ropes of foam dangling from his chin. His eyes stared frantically, the whites hemorrhaging to red. His thick, purple tongue extended grotesquely past his swollen, blue lips. He shook convulsively, his boots digging furrows in the dirt.

On the inside, it was all dark explosions, deafening in their silence. A fire burned in Ryan’s crotch, a blaze raging out of control until it erupted like a volcano with molten lead flowing from the caldera…

As Ryan died, he blew his load and shit his jeans simultaneously. His bowels went slack as he poured a dying load of semen into his shorts. The cord became embedded in Ryan’s neck so deeply the merc had to brace himself by planting his boot on the back of Ryan’s head to pull the it out.

He ground Ryan’s puffy black face into the dirt.

Two down, one to go. The mercs pushed quietly through the field in a direct line to the final target. There would be plenty of time afterwards to spread a few chemicals around and make sure this grow op was finished.

Their mandate didn’t include corpses. The bodies would be left where they fell. The mercs didn’t give a shit; they would be long gone by the time the bodies were found.

Travis stood facing the field, leaning against a tree with one hand, fishing a joint out of his boot with the other hand. He had drunk more than the others, so he was at even more of a disadvantage than the others when it came time to fight for his life.

The moment he stood upright, a hand clamped over his mouth and a sharp hard blade was slammed into his right kidney. Travis’ bloodshot, half-lidded eyes dilated in shock. He stiffened involuntarily, his body snapping upright and rising up on his toes. The merc twisted the knife, then ripped it back out of the wound, causing Travis unspeakable agony.

But it was nothing to the pain that came next, when the merc pulled Travis’ head back and stuck the knife into the soft flesh of the bottom jaw, behind the chin.

The tempered steel blade tore upward through the bottom jaw and pierced the tongue, pinning it to the roof of the punk’s mouth. The blade continued up through the soft palate, penetrating the sinuses, passing behind the eyes and severing the optic nerves, shredding the brain tissue in its path.

The tip of the blade came to rest in the pleasure center of the brain, which was why Travis began spewing huge amounts of spunk out of his dying cock.

Travis was locked in a blinded world of loud noises and the most phenomenal pain possible. The brain trauma sent a shockwave through his entire central nervous system. His body seemed to flow in waves from the mangled brain matter down his spine to his dick, where his entire life seemed to flow in great white gobs of cum out of his unnaturally engorged tool.

Travis fell back into the strong, ruthless arms of the merc, thrashing with massive brain damage, his entire existence reduced to the solid stream of semen his shorted-out cerebrum was forcing out of his rod in a final agonizing, involuntary orgasm.

The stoned fucker slumped to the ground, still twitching and convulsing. Long after the mercs had done what they needed to do, Travis was still jerking, cum oozing from the head of his flaccid cock.

The moon rose long after midnight. It shed its slivery beams down on three young men getting hard in the wood. But these boys were getting hard all over—in fact, they were downright stiff.

Jamie stomped angrily out of the twinkie dance club, his expensive black Nike ball shoes slapping firmly against the pavement. Everything about Jamie was expensive—or so Brad had said. So Jamie, already so drunk his gait was just short of a stagger, had screamed at Brad, right in the middle of the dance floor and stumbled out.

He paused at the corner and turned back. The club’s neon sign lit his face as it was reflected in a puddle left by the sprinklers; he could see ‘Studio 69’ in the murky pool, the words upside down but the numbers just right. The name was as subtle as a coronary thrombosis, but subtlety wasn’t Jamie strong suit.

He was in his early twenties, thin and wiry without being scrawny. There was just enough definition to his lithe, hard body to make him desirable, and he knew it. With his slightly olive complexion, black hair and high cheekbones, he had an ethnic cast. Depending on the lighting and the angle at which they beheld him, some observers had thought he was Hispanic. Others caught something Asian in the tilt of his dark almond eyes. In fact, he was neither, but because of this trick of the light, he had a unique ability to attract all kinds of men.

His boyfriend Brad, a chiseled blond god, as vain and shallow as he was, had the advantage of being rich. He and Jamie had met out of a mutual interest in choking. There was actually no choking involved; Brad would put his hand over Jamie’s mouth, Jamie would flop around a little on top of Brad, getting each other hard, then they’d jack off together. They didn’t really think about why it got them hard, especially since they never cut off each other’s breath long enough to get so much as a headache.

But Brad was getting bored. And Jamie had pricey tastes and no job. Plus, he was a slut; he tried to hide it from Brad since Brad paid the bills, but it was kinda obvious when Brad got home from work to find the freshly-laundered sheets he’d put on the bed last night stiff with cum and he hadn’t had sex with Jamie since they were put on…

It came to a head on the dance floor. And so Jamie was out on the corner, swerving back around to find the car. Fuck Brad. He could take a cab home.

Jamie was wearing a tight sky-blue t-shirt that wrapped firmly around his lean swimmer’s torso—swimming was about the only thing Jamie did regularly; not with the discipline of a sport, of course. But he knew on an instinctive level that he had to keep it up to maintain his desirability. A white leather belt covered in square metal studs wrapped around his narrow waist, holding up a pair of skinny black jeans that outlined each asscheek, cinched up along his taint and wrapped around the thick bulge in his groin.

As he turned the last corner into the parking lot, staggering toward the car and a near-certain death in a fiery drunken wreck, he ran straight into some dude who was walking out of the lot. Jamie grunted in surprise as he bounced off a hard body as if he’d walked into a brick wall.

He stumbled back and looked up—and instantly got hard. The dude was seriously hot. Taller than Jamie himself, the guy must have been six-six or more. He was older, early thirties perhaps. Curly hair like spun gold, he had a broad, muscled chest accented by the dirty sleeveless white t-shirt he wore. Jamie could see a skull tattoo on the dude’s left shoulder. Under the skeletal grin were inked the words “Die, Motherfucker, Die!”

The dude’s jeans were tight and faded, ragged at the hems and torn at the left knee. On his feet were rugged, well-worn construction boots laced tightly above his ankles.

Jamie looked up into the man’s face. The orange glare of the sodium light in the parking lot lit a nimbus of fire in the man’s gold hair. His eyes were ice-blue—and ice-cold. Stubble darkened his lean, hard jaw. He looked down at Jamie with no emotion at all.

Jamie found himself turned on—and scared. There was something about this guy that reeked of sex. Jamie knew, somehow, deep within himself, that this man was capable of giving him the best sex he’d ever had. He didn’t know why he was so certain, but he was. He was, however, also frightened by the dude. There was something about him—he was appraising Jamie with a look of lust that Jamie was very familiar with, but the other emotions that should be there—hope, doubt, desperation—well, there was nothing.

It didn’t matter. Jamie was too drunk to heed the red flags. “Hey, sweetie,” he leered obscenely, “wanna fuck me? We can go back to my place; it’s only a few blocks away.”

The dude looked down at him for a moment, considering. In his drunken state, Jamie concluded the guy was a construction worker. Straight to his friends and family. Comes down for a quick fuck on the DL every now and then. Ok by him. Dude had a hot body and anyway fuck Brad! This guy would fuck him without bitching about money and maybe even choke him a little. He’d ask; couldn’t hurt. And if he was better than Brad and had some money—fuck Brad!

Even in his alcoholic stupor, Jamie felt a slight chill down his spine when the dude reacted to his suggestion by staring levelly into his eyes and saying in a monotone, “Yeah, you’ll do.” Jamie interpreted it as a lack of gratitude that a young stud like himself should condescend to make the offer. It was an experience he was not used to; most of the time guys were “generous” to him in every sense of the word, which infuriated Brad.

“C’mon, we’ll take my car,” the dude snapped suddenly, “you’re in no shape to drive. You live alone?”

“No,” Jamie slurred, “but that asthhole won’t be back for long time. He gonna go fuck someone elsh. Like I don’t fuckin’ know what he means when he says ek—exthp—I cost too much, fuckin’ bitsth…”

Jamie found himself strapped into the front seat of a car, not quite remembering if he’d gotten in under his own power. The car was moving. He must’ve passed out for a moment. He hoped they were going home but was just a little too wasted to be able to tell. “Where we goin’, man,” he blurted.

“Your place. That’s what ya said,” the dude replied abruptly.

“How you know where t’ go?”

“Your wallet. Got the address off your driver’s license. Just lay back, James, you’re gonna have a good time.”

“Jamie, dude, name is Jamie. Will you choke me? I don’ mean really choke me, dude, I mean act like it. Y’know, pretend-like. Gets me off, if ya know what I mean.”

The older man let out a deep chuckle. “Yeah, Jamie,” he grinned, “I think I can do that. I can choke ya and make you get off.”

It was a ground floor condo at the back edge of the complex. In the parking lot, Jamie grabbed the dude’s hand and led him to the front door, letting go to unlock it. The unit was dark. Jamie didn’t bother to turn on any lights. Walking straight back into the bedroom, he started to strip.

“When you’re done, put your shoes back on,” the dude said as he walked into the room and pulled his shirt off, exposing his broad chest and rippled abdomen covered with a fine golden haze of fur. “I wanna fuck you while you’re wearing them.” His taut body glistened in the half-light.

As Jamie tightly re-laced his basketball shoes up to his ankles, the older man unzipped his fly. Slipping the elastic band of his briefs under his scrotum, he let his cock and balls flop out, already swollen and purple.

Lying back on the bed, Jamie stared at the dude’s thick tackle and inhaled deeply, shudderingly. “Fuck, dude,” he moaned, “stick it in me. Make me feel it.”

The dude’s cold, icy eyes roved over Jamie’s body like he was appraising a piece of meat—which was exactly what he was doing. The thin, firm, wiry body of the boy was stretched out on the bed. He wrapped his hands under his knees and hoisted his legs, exposing his pink quivering butthole, his black Nike kicks dangling in the air.

The dude approached the bed. Not bothering to remove his boots or his jeans—since his dick was out anyway—he plunged his long, erect member into the boy’s trembling, pale rosebud of a sphincter. Jamie cried out in pain as the thick tool split his ass, impaling him on a rod of hard flesh. He’d been fucked many, many times before, but never quite this ruthlessly.

Somewhere deep in his little pig soul, he loved it and craved more. He looked up into the dude’s face and saw nothing there but contempt. It scared him, and being scared got him harder than ever. So did the dude’s cock. Jamie could feel every ridged inch of it stretching out his already well-worn fuckhole; the guy’s tool was painfully thick.

If Jamie hadn’t been so drunk and angry, he might have recognized some danger signals; he was pretty experienced with random pick-ups. But with his senses dulled, he walked into a bad situation. He was about to make it worse.

“Goddam, dude,” he moaned breathily. He jerked back on his legs, spreading his black sneakers further apart as they hung in the air. “Fuckin’ Brad can’t fuck me like this. Can ya choke me, too? Can ya do that better than him? If ya got some money, I’ll be your bitch, dude. Take care of me and you can bang me all th’ time.”

The dude slipped one hand down to the right front pocket of his jeans. Without breaking the rhythm of his pumping, he grinned into Jamie’s face, his left hand placed in the center of Jamie’s chest, pinning him to the bed. “Don’t worry, bitch,” he whispered. “I’ll take care of you, all right.”

Suddenly, he spit in Jamie’s face. It took a moment for Jamie to realize what had happened; just as he did so, the dude’s right arm came up, biceps bunched in strain, swinging right at Jamie’s face. In the last split-second before it made contact, Jamie could see what looked like a length of braided nylon cord in his clenched fist.

The blow stunned him–it actually wasn’t that strong; just hard enough to split his lips and cause some minor bleeding. But Jamie was still too drunk to put up any kind of coordinated defense, so the impact was out of proportion to the force. He grunted in pain as he felt a hand grip his hair and jerk his head up off the mattress. He was laid back down a moment later, but he could feel that something was different.

He could feel the rope on the back of his neck. Despite the unexpected, terrifying assault, Jamie’s long cock was still erect, slapping against his own lean belly as his body rocked with the purposeful thrusting of the man on top of him. As the dude crossed the ends of the rope over the front of his throat, Jamie’s dick started oozing in anticipation. He had a live one. This guy was gonna fuck him good. And a hard alpha male like him pretending to choke…

And then the dude pulled the rope taut. Jamie’s perspective changed immediately as the cord sank deeply into his skin. Jamie’s eyes widened; Brad had never cut off his air so completely so early. And besides, it hurt like fuck. The dude was gonna have to let up or this was gonna be over real fast.

Jamie tried to cry out, to tell the older man to ease up a bit, but found that his throat was too constricted to be able to make an intelligible sound. He turned his bulging eyes up to the dude’s face and for the first time during the encounter, experienced true fear—just after the nick of time, so to speak.

The dude was bearing down on him, straight-arming the tight cord into his neck. It was the look in the eyes, though, that managed to pierce through Jamie’s alcohol-induced haze and spark true terror in his soul. It was a look of lust, mixed with contempt and rage. Seeing it made Jamie instantly aware of his vulnerable position; a larger, stronger man was holding him to the bed with his huge cock up Jamie’s ass and a cord wrapped tightly around Jamie’s neck.

That’s when he finally realized what was happening. This guy wasn’t gonna let go. He wasn’t pretending. He was gonna take Jamie all the way down that path to the very end.

Jamie panicked. He began flailing wildly, trying to batter his way free. The dude shifted both ends of the cord to one hand, never creating any slack in the process. Jamie still couldn’t breathe, but now the man had one arm free. He drew back and began pummeling Jamie’s face. Bruises bloomed on Jamie’s tan cheeks as a series of roundhouse blows taught him the virtue of accepting his fate.

With each shuddering smack of fist against flesh, Jamie’s colon tightened involuntarily; even in his pain and fear, he could feel it—but he didn’t know what the feeling was. Since he had no way of knowing that his rectum was contracting, he thought the dude’s dick was swelling to completely fill his ass every time he got punched.

This was going way too far. Jamie’s eyes, protruding from the orbits, began to leak tears. He wanted to stop, to get off the ride. He wrapped his lean, strong legs around the dude’s heaving, sweaty flanks in a vain attempt to force him off. His Nike kicks drummed helplessly on the man’s back. His face was beginning to swell and turn red, and he was gagging uncontrollably; if his esophagus hadn’t been closed off, he’d have been vomiting. But it still wasn’t too late. If the cord came off now, it could all still be okay.

That was when he made his fatal mistake. Giving in to utter panic, Jamie clawed and scrabbled furiously at the dude, scraping and scratching along the man’s hard, hairy chest, breaking the skin and clawing out hair.

The dude grimaced and leaned down with his face up against Jamie’s. Jamie could feel the man’s stubble graze his cheek as he hissed, “You’re gonna pay for that, you fucking slut. You marked me. But you’re my bitch, remember? So now I gotta mark you even harder. See, this is how I know you’re my bitch; I’m gonna mark you as my property—for good.”

With a deep grunt from the center of his chest, the dude spit into Jamie’s face. Wrapping the ends of the cord twice around his hands to improve his grip, the dude yanked it tight around Jamie’s neck.

After Brad’s play-smother, Jamie was unprepared for the dude’s first true choke. Compared to the intensity of the burning agony around his windpipe now, that first one seemed as benign as Brad’s. His fingers scrabbled frantically at his throat but were unable to find leverage; the cord had sunk in too deeply for him to reach.

Jamie felt the pounding, excruciating pressure increase above the stricture. His head felt like it was being over-inflated; his eyes, his tongue, the very skin of his face, all were swelling. A fire was burning in the center of his chest; he thrashed wildly in an attempt to escape it. Somewhere in the depths of his fear-inflamed mind, he could feel the dude’s cock, like a red-hot shaft of iron shoved up his ass. But the pain in his chest and his head overrode that.

The dude was still, holding himself over Jamie’s thrashing, limber body. He didn’t really need to thrust anymore; he could just stay still and let Jamie’s quivering, flailing hole work his cock for him. He remained poised above the kid’s wiry, convulsing body like a steel cage, one shaft of which held the boy to the bed by his ass.

Jamie couldn’t actually feel his face turning black. He could feel his tongue swelling and forcing his jaws apart, though. He could feel his eyes bulging out to the point that he could no longer close his lids. He couldn’t feel the petechial hemorrhages or the blood vessels rupture in the white of his eyes, but he could see the great bursts and blooms of nothingness as his eyes began to misfire from lack of oxygen.

By the time white frothy drool began to leak down his cheek from the corners of his blue lips, Jamie wasn’t really capable of conscious thought. There was nothing left but a nervous system growing increasingly unstable under progressive brain damage. His long, thin cock, all seven inches, was erect and glistening.

Suddenly, a massive convulsion wracked Jamie’s body. As his muscles tightened involuntarily, cum flew from the end of his dick in thin, ropy strands; it looked like someone stomped on a tube of toothpaste.

The older man shuddered, grunting and groaning as Jamie’s colon sucked out his spunk in a suction created by the death throes of the rectum. Gripping the cord in one hand and a handful of Jamie’s hair in another, he jerked them violently apart. As Jamie’s neck snapped under the strain, sending a last constrictive shockwave through his body and milking that last drop of seed out of the dude’s cock, he gave a last strangled cry, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” before relaxing his hard, tensed body.

After a couple of minutes, the dude’s breathing returned to normal. He pulled himself out of the corpse’s ass, his boots hitting the floor with a thump. He walked into the bathroom and spent a little time cleaning himself up.

When he came out, Jamie was still lying stretched out across the bed, legs spread, arms still clutching his throat, blood-stained eyes rolled back so that only a tiny arc of the iris was visible. It was too good of an opportunity to miss. The dude’s dick was still hard. He slipped it into the corpse’s mouth, forcing it past the dry, swollen tongue, feeling it rasp against the sensitive bud of nerves on the underside of his dick head. As he pumped his shaft down the dead kid’s throat, he could feel a slight obstruction on his deepest thrusts; it was the crushed section of Jamie’s esophagus.

The dude came so hard it overflowed the corpse’s oral cavity and leaked out onto the face. It took another few minutes in the bathroom to clean up for the second time. The dude left without a look back.

It was another couple of hours before Brad got home. As Jamie had thought, he’d fucked someone else who’d dropped him off afterwards. Brad was stunned and shocked when he turned on the bedroom light and revealed Jamie’s throttled, abused corpse.

Shocked and stunned, yes. Surprised, no. Brad had known that Jamie could be naïve and randy when drunk, so he had always kinda thought this might happen someday. He’d tried to imagine how he would handle it and now he knew.

Much as he wanted to, he couldn’t fuck Jamie’s body; he couldn’t afford to contaminate the evidence.

They didn’t know who the client was. Sometimes the client was private and sometimes it was a government contract. It didn’t matter. All they needed to know was who the targets were and whether they were supposed to die easy or hard.

This job, they were supposed to die hard.

The targets were a couple of drug lords. Intelligence had it that they were meeting in a neutral location to work out a territorial dispute. They had kept security light— some local punks who hadn’t been able to pay their tabs.

Mac grinned as he sighted the first sentry. He and Bill were gonna enjoy this. The actual targets would be done too quickly—a couple of taps to the head and it’d be over. But the men standing guard–oh, yeah, this was gonna be fun.

Mac and Bill had over a hundred kills of this kind between them. They’d worked out a method that involved incredible precision. Mac had found on an earlier kill that if a knife enters the target’s brain at a certain point and depth, it strikes an area that controls orgasm. The target will drop like a rag doll and cream his jeans on the way down.

He’d practiced it on his next few hits and when he felt confident, he demonstrated it to Bill. It had been on a job south of the border. Bill had already whacked his target—a Mexican hardman who gagged and coughed his life away in Bill’s arms after his throat had been slit.

The sentry Mac was going for was a young man with dirty jeans and combat boots. He wore a tight black tee which covered the handgun tucked down the front of his pants. He’d heard his buddy’s dying gasps and started moving in that direction. Mac had come behind him and clamped a hand over the guard’s mouth; ramming his razor-sharp knife into the guy’s kidney. As the hardman stiffened in agony and shock, Mac had called Bill and had him watch as he lifted the man’s chin and slammed the knife up through the guard’s jaw, puncturing his tongue and soft palate and piercing his brain. After seeing the massive, sticky wet spot form in the dying man’s crotch, Bill had been a willing and able student of form.

Now it was time to send these two punks out the same way.

Mac saw that Bill had the same hard grin as he did. This was gonna be real smooth. These two were practically kids, barely old enough to buy their own beer. Hardman wanna-bes. The wanted to be men; they were gonna die like men. And it was gonna hurt.

The two mercs had gotten close enough to overhear the guards. From their conversation, they had learned the names of each. Danny was short and dark, with shoulder-length black hair. He was wearing tight jeans and hightops, but had no shirt covering his well-developed chest. Bobby was the other one; he was practically a skinhead, with a razor-thin goatee. He was wearing a white wifebeater and showing the tattoos on his muscled arms to an admiring Danny. At the start of the conversation, Bobby had pulled a bag of weed out of his boot and fished papers from the back pocket of his jeans. They had passed a joint back and forth while talking about how fucked up they’d gotten and how many bitches they’d reamed out. When they finished, Bobby had rolled the each their own before they split up.

The warriors’ smiles got tighter. High on guard duty—these two were the definition of ‘young, dumb, and full of cum.’

Time to let that cum out.

Bobby was walking further up the road. Mac trailed him silently, timing the kill.

The hit on Danny was quick and brutal. It was over in an instant, but a lot happened in that instant.

Danny had just taken a lung-busting hit of his own from the joint when Bill grabbed the hair on the top of his head and pulled it back. At the same time, he brought his commando knife upward into Danny’s exposed jaw, slamming it home into the punk’s brain. Danny’s eyes opened wide with pain and fear as his cock swelled and began spurting uncontrollably. The dying punk jerked backwards several times, grinding his ass into Bill’s crotch before going rag-doll. Bill lowered the still-twitching corpse to the ground and turned to follow Mac.

Mac was crouched down in a ditch about ten yards behind Bobby. Bobby was fucked up—he’d been hotboxing his joint and had smoked it down in less than two minutes. Mac wasn’t worried about cover; the guy was too stoned to have any reaction speed.

Mac crept in silently for the kill. About ten feet behind the guard, he pulled his knife from his boot sheath.

He jumped forward quickly, one hand clamping the punk’s mouth, his fingerless leather glove forming a seal to muffle any noise. The other hand pressed the knife into the base of the guard’s head. There was a resistance, then a slight crunching sound as the tip of the knife penetrated the base of the skull. After that, it slid in smooth and easy.

Bobby’s reaction was immediate. He stiffened in a seizure that jerked his body erect. He arched backwards and his eyes rolled back. A grunt was forced out that was muffled to a moan by Mac’s glove.

“Shut up and die, motherfucker,” Mac whispered in Bobby’s ear.

In the dark buzzing vortex of his swiftly-diminishing consciousness, Bobby somehow knew that while he was being told to shut up and die he was spunking so hard it was agony.

After that, there was nothing left but the convulsions of brain trauma. Bobby thrashed violently, his boots digging furrows in the dirt. Mac held him tightly and reamed his knife into Bobby’s brain. The punk shuddered and went limp in Mac’s arms. Mac lowered him to the ground and wiped his knife on the corpse’s shirt.

Looking up, he saw Bill had been enjoying the show. They quickly regrouped and pressed on. There were at least two more guards between them and the final targets.

Things got quiet after they left. The dead meat that had been Bobby still kicked a little as random nerves fired. One of these kicks dislodged the bag of weed in his boot.

Danny’s body lay on its back, glazed eyes staring at nothing. Down the left side of the face was a small trickle of blood from the nose and another from the corner of the mouth. The body occasionally gave a slight twitch, the hightops scraping the dirt.

Mac and Bill crept silently up the road, leaving the piles of twitching meat behind them to rot.

Three hundred yards down, a sound to their right made them freeze. There shouldn’t have been any more guards this far out from the target, but intelligence had been incomplete before. Mac sent Bill further down the road to reconnoiter and went to investigate the sounds himself.

Moving silently through the underbrush, Mac emerged suddenly into a clearing. Right in front of him, leaning against a tree, was a young guard beating his meat. This was Frank.

Frank was wearing an open shirt-sleeve work shirt over his tight white undershirt. His jeans, opened at the fly to display his fully erect cock, were tucked into his dirty, slouched work boots. In his right boot was a half-ounce bag of weed—it was their advance pay for guard duty.

Frank was higher than a kite and had been thinking about the bitch he’d banged in an alleyway last night as he jacked himself. Precum was just starting to ooze from his mushroom tip when merc materialized in front of him. Franks bloodshot eyes widened as he tried to focus on the man who was going to end his life. The guy was wearing all black, from the cap on his close-shaven head to the tactical gloves and the combat boots.

Then bright pain exploded in Frank’s face.

Mac had been caught slightly by surprise, but hadn’t hesitated in wasting the punk. He’d stunned the little fuck with a line-drive punch straight from the shoulder. The steel knuckles built into his gloves added power to the blow.

Frank, semi-conscious, reeled away from Mac. His cheekbone was broken and his lips split. His dick, forgotten but still hard, bobbed in the wind.

Mac stepped forward and slid his left hand under Frank’s left arm and across his chest, grabbing his right shoulder. He reached his right hand around the back of Frank’s head to grab his chin from the left and pulled both of his arms back violently.

There was a cracking sound as Frank’s vertebrae shattered and his spinal cord ruptured. His head was twisted 180 degrees and his stunned, terrified eyes were staring directly into Mac’s.

Frank’s body stiffened and shuddered. His muscles went rigid involuntarily, forcing a geyser of cum to spew from his dick. Faint gasping sounds escaped his lips as he struggled to draw air with muscles and lungs that had stopped working.

There was another shudder and another fountain of spunk. Then Frank’s legs gave way, his boots buckling at the ankles and digging out paths in the dirt. Mac held him all the way down, starting into his eyes. The last thing the punk saw as his wasted life slipped away was the merciless face of the hard man who’d offed him.

Kneeling on the dead meat, with his leg on the corpse’s ass and his gloved hand pressing strongly on the blank, staring face, Mac paused and listed. These fucks usually traveled in pairs.

Sure enough, there was a rustling sound ahead and a little to the left. Mac moved quietly back into the woods, leaving the body in the clearing behind him to stiffen. After a while, the cum dried, leaving the corpse with glazed eyes and glazed thighs.

Mac was moving quietly parallel to the road. About ten yards beyond the clearing where he’d left Frank’s body, he was brought up short by a motorcycle hidden in the brush, with a helmet hanging from the handlebars. The sound he was tracking was louder now, and seemed to come from his right. He moved off in that direction.

It didn’t take him long to find the other guard. He was taking a leak into a small stream, with his back to Mac. This one had a shock of unruly black hair and a gold loop in his ear caught the light. He was wearing a white t-shirt tucked into tight leather pants cinched by some kind of metallic belt. The leather pants, in turn, were tucked into high biker boots. This one was young, about nineteen or twenty.

Mac slowly reached for the length of nylon cord in his pocket. He looped it around the kid’s neck in a flash and pulled hard.

The punk, as high as the others, hadn’t seen it coming. He flailed wildly, struggling for breath. Mac tightened his hold on the guard’s windpipe and braced himself as his victim fought—vainly—for his life.

The punk had some fight in him, too. He spent some time grabbing ineffectively at the cord digging into his neck, but Mac was pulling it violently and it was embedded in the flesh. That was when the kid panicked.

He stopped struggling with the cord and reached up, trying to connect with anything that would release his agonized throat and let him breathe again. In his terror of death, he lost control of his bladder. His dick was still out and the piss dribbled down his leather pants onto his desperately kicking boots.

The guard’s flailing hands batted aimlessly at Mac’s face and caught at his arms. Out of the corner of his eye, Mac could see that the stupid little fuck had a tribal armband tattoo. Then the victim’s hands were in his face again and he decided enough was enough.

He kicked the guy’s boots out from under him and kneeled to follow him down. The guard was now sitting on the ground with his legs jerking out in front, boots tearing up the dirt and leaves. Mac could see the pot leaf emblazoned on the punk’s belt buckle. He wondered if the kid had any idea that he was going to die wearing it when he put it on today. He gave the cord a hard tug and there was a crunching sound.

Mac knew he could let the punk go now; his windpipe was crushed and he’d be dead in sixty seconds no matter what. But he held on, watching the guy’s flaccid cock suddenly swell and turn a vivid purple—the same purple as the guard’s face. A foamy trickle of saliva escaped past the kid’s swollen, protruding tongue. His hands had stopped beating violently at Mac’s face and were moving slower, almost caressing him.

The punk’s random jerking became a rhythmic convulsion. With each spasm, the kid shot a load and he shot hard. Mac felt a splatter of semen on his cheek. The guy shot his next three loads into his own face. Cum dripped from his dull, half-open eyes down over the tip of his tongue and off his chin.

Mac held on to the wetly pulsating meat for a little while longer before removing his cord. He had to tug at it as it was buried deeply in the guard’s throat. He turned and left as quietly as he had come, on his way to rejoin Bill.

The silence that settled over the kill after Mac’s departure was only broken by the death throes of the corpse. These became fewer over time, but with each spasm, a slight trickle of sperm leaked out onto the leather pants.

Mac found Bill near what the map had marked as the last turn in the road. Beyond this point, the road ascended in a straight line to the cabin where the final targets were supposed to be located.

Naturally, there were another couple of guards around the bend.

Bill had already scoped them out. He told Mac that he’d gathered from their conversation that they were brothers. The younger brother wouldn’t give them any problems—he’d only come along to get high and would be easy to drop. The older brother, with bright red hair, would be tougher. He’d worked for the targets before and acted as if he knew how to handle himself. He didn’t, but he could still cause problems.

Mac went carefully forward and checked them out. They were standing by the far side of the road. Both had dressed similarly in tight black shirts and tight jeans. The ginger guard was in his mid-20’s and had his shirt tucked into his jeans. When he turned his back to Mac, he could see a 9-millimeter jammed down the back of the guy’s jeans, the handle out for access. Ginger was wearing combat boots and thick leather bands around his wrists, one of them holding a watch.

Junior was about 18 or 19. He was wearing a ball cap and didn’t have his shirt tucked in. He was squatting with his back to Mac, who could see that the kid was going commando. He’d tucked his jeans into ropers.

Mac returned to Bill.

“I found two more guard back there,” he said.

“Any problems?”

“Nah. They kicked a little. But we need to get one of these to talk. Need to find out if there’s any other surprises.”

Bill grinned.

“Good cop, bad cop? It’s my turn to be bad cop.”

They sprang out simultaneously. Bill went for Ginger, kicking his legs out. The guard fell to his knees with Bill behind him, one hand clenched in his hair. The other held a knife at the side of Ginger’s throat.

Junior had risen and was facing Mac when he jumped. Mac slammed the kid back into a tree and pressed hard on him, gloved hand over his mouth. He too had a knife, pointed at Junior’s belly.

Bill yanked up on Ginger’s hair.

“Ok, you little cocksucker, talk!”

Ginger snapped back, “Fuck you! I ain’t tellin’ ya shit!”

Bill hadn’t expected him to. He turned to Mac with a smile.

“He says he don’t wanna.”

Mac eased his pressure on Junior’s mouth just enough to let him speak.

Mac leaned forward, pinning Junior to the tree with his full body weight. He forced Junior’s head to the right, giving him a direct view of his brother.

“Watch what happens if you don’t talk. Go for it, Bill.”

With a violent jerk, Bill thrust his knife into Ginger’s throat, the tip coming out the other side. The sharp serrated blade tore through the punk’s vocal cords and windpipe, neatly spearing the adam’s apple.

Ginger made a choked gurgling sound. His face was a mask of pain and terror.

“Watch him,” whispered Mac into Junior’s ear, “watch him die.”

Ginger’s hands flailed helplessly in front of him. His body jerked and shuddered as a pink foam began to leak from the corners of his mouth. He sagged forward. The only thing keeping him from falling face down in the dirt was Bill’s hold on his hair.

Bill had gotten rock hard. He pulled Ginger’s head back into his groin. In his last few seconds alive, Ginger was dimly aware of only one other thing beside the agony of death—the sensation of a hot iron rod covered in fabric pressed against the back of his head.

Mac eased up on Junior’s mouth again. “Now talk, bitch,” he growled. “How many others between here and the cabin?”

Junior started crying—they’d been right; he was the weak one. When he spoke, it came out in one long gasp of terror, all at once.

“Ohfuckdon’tkillmepleasedon’tilltellyaanythingohfuckohshit,” he pleaded.

“Quit babbling, you little shit and tell me—anyone else between here and the cabin?’

Junior gulped hard and just barely managed to control his panic. “No one, dude,” he sobbed, “just them two dudes that went up there and the guys driving their cars—I swear. Fuck, dude, don’t kill me—I told ya what ya wanted to know. Oh God, please don’t kill me!’

Mac clamped his hand back over Junior’s mouth and turned to Bill with a grin.

“Whaddaya think?”

“Nah, he’s useless. Waste the little fuck.”

Mac turned back to Junior. “Sorry, kid,” he said with a smile. “If he says I gotta waste ya, I gotta waste ya.”

Junior stared at him with terrified eyes, He began struggling, tears running down his face.

Mac stabbed his knife upwards into Junior’s belly. Even with Mac’s gloved hand firmly covering his mouth, faint screams could be heard.

With a single controlled jab, he rammed the knife up through Junior’s jaw and tongue, embedding it in the soft palate. The intense burst of agony combined with the shock of the gut stab had halted Junior’s struggle. He stood shuddering, his eyes wide.

Mac jammed the knife up into the kid’s brain. Junior’s eyes dilated, then rolled back so only the white could be seen. His tight muscular body arced forward, grinding his groin into Mac’s. Mac felt Junior’s hard dick rubbing against his own through several layers of fabric, getting him hard as well.

Then he felt liquid on his balls and the base of his cock and knew that the kid was cumming so hard in his dying moments that the spunk had soaked through. Mac lost control and shot his wad. As his own jizz spread over his belly and the kid’s cum oozed onto his balls, Mac skullfucked Junior with his knife, reaming in and out and shredding the kid’s brain.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mac saw that Bill hadn’t been able to control himself either. Still holding Ginger’s corpse by the hair, he’d positioned the body so it was facing him. He pulled his long rigid dick out and stuck it in Ginger’s mouth. A quick, violent facefuck and Bill growled, then gave a low groan, sending ropy strands of his spunk over Ginger’s mangled larynx. He was still oozing when he pulled out, sperm mixing with the blood drying at the corner of Ginger’s mouth.

“Sorry,” muttered Bill when he noticed Mac watching him. “Just seeing the two of you…well…”

“Don’t apologize. I didn’t know it would be like that. We’ll have to find a way to get ourselves off on every kill. Why should we let these fucks have all the fun?” As he finished saying this he kicked Junior’s blank staring face with his steel-toed boot.

“Yeah,” said Bill. “Shame we can’t have much fun with the targets. But I still got more spunk of my own to let out.”

“Don’t worry,” replied Mac. They cleaned themselves using the shirts of their dead fuckbuddies. “I think we can still have some fun during cleanup.”

They started climbing the hill in the direction of the cabin.

The approach to the cabin was difficult. Just a few yards past the spot where Ginger and Junior were turning cold and stiff, the line of sight forced them into the treeline—Mac and Bill could be seen from the cabin if they stayed on the road. The need for silence slowed them, especially if the two “drivers”—more likely professional killers—were outside.

They were. One of them was clearly a hardman type. Well-built, with thick short dark curls, he wore a white t-shirt and jeans, both skin-tight. His camo-patterned cap was backwards and his combat boots were desert camo.

The other guard surprised the mercs. He was about 18, little more than a kid. A black wifebeater showed tattoos on his muscled arms and pecs. His strong legs ended in colorful expensive sneakers. They later found that he was the nephew of one of the targets. He’d killed before and thought he was a major bad-ass. Mac and Bill agreed not to kill him right away.

They had plans for him.

The guards were standing between the cabin door and the cars, which were parked parallel to the front of the building. By keeping low and moving carefully, Mac and Bill had reached the other side of the cars, where they split up.

Bill whipped around the rear of the car and put the kid’s lights out. A lightning-fast blow to the jaw knocked the boy out.

The kid grunted when he got decked and the hardman heard. He turned towards Bill and opened his mouth to say something. He never had the chance. Mac was on him immediately, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other slashing mercilessly at his throat with a knife.

The hardman fell to his knees, hands grasping his throat. A look of horror and disbelief was in his eyes—he’d cut the throats of several men himself, but he didn’t know the pain and terror of watching his life spurt out. He tried to scream in agony but no sound came from his mangled larynx. The only noise was the uncontrollable gasping and gurgling from the wound.

The guard fell face down in a swiftly-spreading pool. He spent his last few seconds coughing up blood and scrabbling his boots ineffectually on the ground. The smell of blood and piss filled the air.

Bill had hogtied the boy to make sure he stayed put. The kid started to moan quietly.

“Hey, we need to shut him up. Whaddaya think?”

“Hold on a sec,” said Mac. He unlaced the dead guard’s boots and pulled them off. He yanked the corpse’s socks off and tossed them to Bill. “Gag him with these.”

Bill balled the guard’s reeking socks and shoved them into the boy’s mouth. The kid had no choice but to lie quietly until the mercs came back for him.

Time to take out the targets. There were two of them, Carlos Camacho and Eddie Herrera. Carlos was in his late 20’s and seriously hardcore. He was a major player in street gang drug activity in the western part of the state. He was wanted on several murder charges. His head was shaved but he wore a goatee and his arms were covered in tattoos. Bill and Mac, each watching through different windows, had no difficulty identifying him. He wore a white sleeveless t-shirt and tight white chinos. On his feet were expensive ostrich-skin cowboy boots.

Eddie had come up from Mexico to facilitate the flow of the drugs to Carlos. On his arrival, he’d found a rival supplier trying to make inroads with Carlos. He’d resolved the issue by leaving the rival and his entourage of guards alone—as dismembered corpses in a ravine. He was here tonight to work out the final details of the deal with Carlos in a place where they wouldn’t be interrupted.

He had no clue that both the deal and his life were about to be cut off.

Eddie was in his early 30’s and was beautiful to look at. His large brown eyes with long lashes had looked into the death stare of many men without losing the charm of innocence. His face, though, was hard and cold, showing the killer inside. He wore a long-sleeved western shirt tucked into tight blue jeans that sported a large belt buckle. His cowboy boots were dusty and plain, far less costly that the ones sported by Carlos.

The mercs quickly got the drop on their targets. The door splintered as soon as Mac applied his boot to it. He and Bill burst into the main room of the cabin, aiming their silenced handguns, taking Carlos and Eddie by surprise. The thugs were helpless.

“On your knees, assholes!” shouted Mac.

Then went down on their knees and raised their hands. Since the intruders were wearing paramilitary gear, Carlos and Eddie thought they were some branch of law enforcement. They foresaw legal issues, loss of time and money.

They didn’t see death staring them in the face—but they would, very soon.

Mac held the thugs at gunpoint while Bill frisked them. He did it thoroughly, making each man moan by squeezing the bulges between their legs. Nothing wrong with a man having a little fun on the job.

Neither Carlos nor Eddie was surprised when the handcuffs went on; they expected it as part of the arrest process. Mac was still pointing his gun at them, forcing them to keep their faces to the wall. They could hear Bill moving things behind them but had no idea what he was doing.

They soon found out. After a couple of minutes, Mac had them turn around. In the center of the room, a black nylon cord had been draped over a rafter. Each end of the cord terminated in a slip-knot loop, hanging about eight feet off the ground. Beneath each loop was a chair.

Even being forced up onto the chairs and having the loops placed around their necks didn’t faze the hardened thugs—they prided themselves on their reputation as tough motherfuckers and expected a little psychological torture in pursuit of a confession. The first conscious awareness they had that this wasn’t an ordinary arrest didn’t come until Mac and Bill had unzipped their captives’ pants and pulled out their thick, uncut cocks.

It was also their last conscious awareness. The mercs kicked away the chairs. After that, it was desperate, futile, primal fight for life.

Carlos and Eddie died a horrible, lingering death. With their hands bound but their legs free, they kicked at each other in their maddened struggle for breath.

Carlos had the strong, fit body of a street thug. This made him suffer longer. He jerked and kicked at his end of the rope, feeling Eddie die beside him. His face became congested and blue, with foam boiling from his open, swollen lips. His thick tool was fully erect.

Next to him, Eddie was also dancing on air, his boots flailing wildly beneath him. The slipknot had tightened agonizingly around his neck, causing great folds to form in the skin of the throat. Eddie’s thirteen-inch throat was constricted to a circumference of about five inches.

The blood, unable to escape, backed up in Eddie’s head. Vessels ruptured in his eyes and nose and his face turned black. His tongue and his bloodshot eyes bulged. A trickle of blood from the nose dripped onto the tip of his tongue. Like Carlos, his massive dick was standing up straight.

Carlos had stopped kicking. With his boots together, pointed down at the floor a couple of feet beneath him, he was arcing his body violently at the waist. He wasn’t ready to give up the battle for his life yet.

Eddie was. After a couple of convulsions, all Eddie could feel was burning agony in his throat and more burning agony in his cock. The sensation in his dick grew uncontrollably. As searing pain and death overwhelmed him, Eddie was unaware that cum had erupted from his cock in a steady stream. It shot up like a fountain and splattered back down onto all four of them. Several jets went up before Eddie’s spasms slowed and he dangled limply. The cum stains on his boots were washed off a moment later when his bladder voided post-mortem and piss flowed down his legs.

Mac pulled his straining cock out, already oozing with precum. He almost shot his wad watching Eddie die. He turned to Bill.

“You ready to finish off this little punk?” he asked.

Bill nodded. He was already beating his meat. He reached out and grabbed Carlos’s rigid dick.

Carlos’s body had let him down. It refused to let him die easy. The world had gone gray and soundless explosions burst inside his head but he was still conscious. Eddie’s spunk had splattered on his face and Carlos knew what that meant. He’d strangled men before and had seen them shoot as they died.

Carlos felt Bill’s hand on his cock, felt the smooth leather tactical glove stroke his shaft. He resisted the urge to shoot the seed bubbling up in his balls, but his dick was being controlled by automatic reflexes. He was getting jacked off as he died and he was going to blow his load whether he wanted to or not.

Carlos gave a vigorous jerk, thrusting his cock forward at Bill. It spat out a wad of cum, catching Bill full in the face. At the same time, Mac, pounding his meat furiously, shot his own load over Carlos’s legs and boots.

Bill didn’t even have to touch himself. He gushed his load when he caught Carlos’s dying facial. He continued to yank the thick rod in his hand. Carlos’s eyes rolled back in his head. Foamy spittle had run from the corner of his mouth and dripped from his jaw. Each tug on his meat was rewarded by another spurt of cum.

Bill grabbed the thug’s legs and jerked them downwards, hard. There was a thick cracking sound. Carlos felt sharp, stabbing pain in his neck and sank into the nothingness of death. His neck had stretched and his body went rigid at the moment of death, shooting out one last spray of sperm that splashed down Bill’s chest.

It took a few minutes for Mac and Bill to catch their breath. They cleaned themselves in the cabin’s washroom before retrieving Jose, who was still hogtied on the ground outside. They put him to work moving the bodies.

At gunpoint, they forced him into the driver’s seat of one of the cars. Bill sat next to him; Mac sat behind, the muzzle of his gun against the back of the boy’s head. He had to drive out to the first pair of corpses and load them into the trunk, then work his way back to the cabin. On the way down, they forced him to drive over Ginger’s body, still lying in the middle of the road.

Jose stopped whimpering, but terror was growing inside of him. He’d thought he was tough because he’d shanked a couple of dudes. This level of cold-bloodedness was beyond him. He was still too young to be this hard.

At each kill, Mac stayed inside the car with his gun on Jose as long as he was visible. Bill got out and had his gun in point-blank range of the kid the entire time. Jose had to drag each body to the car and lift it into the trunk. Every time he bent over a body, his eyes met the horror-filled death stare of the corpse and his panic increased.

They left the bodies in the car when they got back to the cabin. Taking a spade that was lying by the side of the building, they marched Jose into the woods. After about two hundred yards, they found what they were looking for. It was a clear spot, on the side of a hill overlooking a dry creek bed. Here they forced Jose to dig a pit.

The boy was almost hysterical now. Deep down, he knew that there was no way he’d survive this night. He had only one hope to hold on to, that his uncle was somehow all right and would save him. He hadn’t been inside the cabin yet.

That one hope was enough. He would still struggle for his worthless life. He sobbed in terror, but he dug the pit his own corpse would rot in.

When he was finished, shaking with exhaustion and with his grimy face streaked with his tears, they forced him to drag the corpses up one by one and throw them into the pit. Jose slowly emptied the car. By the time he’d pulled up the last body, the blood-caked hardman outside the cabin door, he had barely enough strength left to roll it into the pit. The corpses had been tossed in at random, boots on faces, groins to asses. The young punks had ended their worthless lives violently and were being left to rot like garbage.

Mac and Bill allowed Jose a little rest before taking him back to the cabin. They shoved him through to broken door and the first thing Jose saw was his uncle, still hanging from the beam. Carlos was dangling next to him, his neck grotesquely elongated. Jose fell to his knees, the last spark of hope dying inside him.

Mac cut the cord over the rafter and the bodies hit the floor with a thud. Jose dragged one body to the pit and Bill dragged the other.

When it was done, Mac made Jose stand at the edge of the pit and pull out his cock. His six inches of meat drooped in terror.

“Little hard-ass punk—can’t even get it up!” jeered Mac. “C’mere, Bill, let’s see if we can’t have a little fun offin’ this bitch.”

Mac wrapped a thin wire garrote around the kid’s neck and pulled it tight. The wire bit into the flesh, causing thin streams of blood to streak Jose’s throat. The boy sank to his knees, his hands clawing at his throat. Bill knelt beside him, tugging on his dick.

Jose was aware he was being jacked off, but the knife-like pain that shut off his air was more immediate. As his eyes bulged, everything grew dark and the edges of his vision shrank to a small vibrating circle. He could see his uncle’s twisted, blackened face staring back at him from the pit, Eddie’s own cum drying to a glaze on his face. Jose knew what was happening to him; when he shot his load, he knew he was dying. Before his sight vanished into oblivion, he saw his spunk raining in showers over the bodies in the pit.

Neither Bill not Mac had so much as undone their flies. Both had creamed their boxers as Jose hosed down the corpses with sperm. They rolled his body into the pit and left it the like the others to decay into a stinking pile of meat.

They returned to the cabin to clean themselves again and then started back to their local base. Time to send out word that they were ready for another job.